


New Divide

by AislingSiobhan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-26
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:39:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 76,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AislingSiobhan/pseuds/AislingSiobhan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[LV/HP] Harry Potter was the Boy-Who-Lived. But by some twist of Fate he was also the reincarnation of Voldemort's murdered lover. Harry has enjoyed the past few years at Hogwarts, but this one looks set to be even more intriguing. Suddenly smarter than he was before and plagued with memories of his past life as he sleeps, Harry gets set for his school year. But then Voldemort finds out who Harry really is. And every thing changes. AU. Slash. LV/HP. Past LV/OC (Harry). Violence. Language. Character Death (OC). Flashbacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 01

**Author's Note:**

> So, I hear FFnet is no longer the place to be? Well…
> 
> Thank you very, very much to Star_Faerie and to Araea Swiftwind for their much appreciated beta'ing skills.
> 
> Also, this story is dedicated to BOOMrobotdog, without whom I would never have gotten up off of my arse and actually started. It would still be crayon marks on the drawing board that is my brain if not for her. So round of applause for all three wonderful people, please?

[   
](http://k155-me.livejournal.com/)

  
**"New Divide"**   


**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter, et all are property of JK Rowling, and Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros and all those other nifty people that make it so we can read and watch the Potterverse whenever we feel like it. I make no money from this and I own nothing, just so you know.  
 **Summary:** [LV/HP] Harry Potter was the Boy-Who-Lived. By some twist of Fate he was also the reincarnation of Voldemort's murdered lover. Harry has enjoyed the past few years at Hogwarts, but this one looks set to be even more intriguing. Suddenly smarter than he was before and plagued with memories of his past life as he sleeps, Harry prepares for the approaching war. Then Voldemort finds out who Harry really is. And every thing changes. AU.  
 **Warnings:** Slash. LV/HP. Past LV/OC (Harry). Violence. AU. Language. Character Death. Flashbacks. Horcruxes.  
 **Rating:** NC-17. Slash and Violence.  
 **Name Meanings:** I wanted to get this in early: _"Anathema": a person or thing accursed or consigned to damnation or destruction._ **"Mallory": It is of Old French origin, and it's meaning is 'unlucky'.** _"Apep": Egyptian name, meaning 'to slither.' In mythology, Apep is the personification of evil, seen as a giant snake, serpent or dragon. Known as the Serpent of the Nile or Evil Lizard, he was an enemy of the sun god._  
 **Animal Symbolism:** "Panther"- Guardian, Energy, Understanding of Death, Reclaiming Ones Power, Ability to Know the Dark, Death, Rebirth. "Dog"- Guidance, Protection, Loyalty, Faithfulness, Devotion, Trust (The "Grim" is a ghostly image of a large dog-like beast; seeing one portends death).  


 _XXX_

 _I remember black skies, the lightening all around me.  
I remembered each flash as time began to blur,  
Like a startling sign that Fate had finally found me  
And your voice was all I heard. Did I get what I deserved_? -- Linkin Park.

 **Words:** 2,150  
 **Chapter 1**  
June 1997.

Little Whinging was an ordinary little village. It wasn't large, but it wasn't too small either. It had been deemed perfect by Mr and Mrs Dursley when they had first decided to move there several years ago. Normal and tidy, with lots of neighbours to spy on and plenty of garden space for their future children to play in, the house of Number 4, Privet Drive couldn't have been more ordinary if it had tried.

The only thing less ordinary about the house was that one of its inhabitants was a Wizard named Harry Potter. Harry was the nephew of Petunia Dursley. The Dursleys had been forced to care for Harry after his parents had died sixteen years ago, and despite the fact that Harry spent most of the year at a boarding school in Scotland, they thought of Harry as a burden.

Normally Harry didn't mind. He wasn't all that fond of his Muggle relatives either, but the past school years had been hard on him. Two years ago, his beloved godfather had died. He had only known Sirius for two years at the time of his death, but Harry had been hit terribly hard by Sirius' murder. There was something about the man that compelled Harry to love him beyond reason and definition. He felt like he had known the man before, a long time ago, and not just when he had been a baby. Just as the boy thought he might be starting to heal, to 'get over it' as many people thought he should, his pseudo-grandfather had been killed a little over a month ago. The Headmaster's death had rocked him, sending his mind careening across a vast ocean of despair. How was he supposed to defeat Voldemort without his mentor's help?

The house was quiet, as it always was that late at night. Strangely enough, Harry was actually sleeping. He usually fought to stay awake for as long as possible. Lately, he had been having the strangest dreams. They hadn't come from Voldemort, but they weren't ordinary dreams either. Things happened in them; things that Harry could understand and relate to and they made him feel a horrid sense of déjà vu despite the fact that he had never experienced those things.

Sometimes, the dreams were more like nightmares.

Sometimes, they started off as nightmares.

 _Harry reached for the Locket, scooping it into his hand before turning from the basin. He ran back to Dumbledore, who was crouched a little way away, close to the edge of the island. Far too close to the water for Harry's liking._

"I've gotten it, Professor," Harry called. Harry heard himself speak, as if someone else had spoken, but at the same time he felt his mouth move to form the words. It was strange, this dream, he thought. A hybrid between a real dream and a visit into a Pensieve. "Let's go," he told his Headmaster.

Dumbledore merely looked up at him warily. "Water?" He begged, his voice hoarse from screaming. "Please?"

Harry ran to the basin. He grabbed hold of the cup, and when his spell failed to conjure water, he dipped the cup into the strange, clouded water that lapped against the island they stood on. He raised the cup.

With a frown, he looked around the Astronomy Tower. Harry was hidden under his cloak, and try as he might he couldn't free himself from Dumbledore's stunner. In his hand, he held onto the fake Locket, it dangled loosely from his fingers and Harry half hoped it would slip free and hit the ground. Its noise would let the others know they were being watched. Snape might stop long enough to investigate the noise.

Bright green light filled the room. Draco and Severus looked away, shielding their eyes, but Harry had no choice but to stare straight ahead and watch. He screamed, silent and unheard, as Dumbledore arched gracefully backwards (so reminiscent to Sirius' death) and tumbled back out of the window. The moment Harry was able to move, to squeeze the chain of the Locket so hard that it hurt, was the moment he knew Dumbledore was dead.

He looked down at the Locket. It was so unassuming, and while fancy and gaudy, it wasn't something that Harry thought Voldemort would even look twice at if not for the elaborate 'S' on the front of it that marked it as a past possession of Salazar Slytherin. He squeezed his hand around it once more, before he ran from the Tower. He chased after Snape, screaming the man's name, and the locket lay discarded on the floor.

 _XXX_

April 1947.

 _Tom reached into his pocket and pulled forth the Locket. He held it out to Anathema, allowing the boy to see it as it dangled loosely from his fingers._

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The young Voldemort asked his lover. Merely 21, but already Tom exuded an aura of power strong enough that the other inhabitants of one of London's less popular streets steered well clear of him. They twisted their bodies out of the way, and changed directions in some cases, just to avoid him.

The dark haired beauty smiled. His eyes were a startling shade of green, his skin pale like porcelain and his lips were pale pink and bee stung. He reached out one hand to brush his fingers along the intricate 'S' on the front of the Locket. "A little much, don't you think?"

Tom chuckled lightly. His hand cupped Anathema's cheek lightly, brushing his thumb along the boy's cheekbone. "It once belonged to the great Salazar Slytherin, Ana. There is no other object of such beauty."

"Not even me?" Ana teased with another smile, his eyes shining in amusement.

Tom leant forward, his lips barely brushed against Anathema's as he whispered, "you are not an object, are you?"

A voice behind them startled them both. "No, but he is beautiful, ain't he?" Tom whirled around, eyes narrowing as they landed on the scantily dressed Muggle woman that was pressed up against the wall. She licked her lips at Ana, before she sauntered forward, ignoring the danger that was Tom Riddle. "Fancy a go, pretty boy? I ain't expensive, I promise." Her finger was suddenly against his mouth, pressing hard against Ana's bottom lip, and the young man turned wide eyes to his lover.

Anathema swallowed heavily as he met Tom's eyes. The man was angry, very angry. His whole face had gone chalk white and his eyes had started to bleed into a bright shade of red. His wand was in his free hand, and he had it pointed between the woman's shoulders.

"Get away from my partner," he ground out, his words only half in English.

She didn't even turn to look at him. Instead, she pressed herself up against Anathema, ignoring his attempts to push her away without hurting her, and whispered into the man's ear. "Tell your prude to go home, or tell him to let me share you."

A hiss escaped Tom's lips, and in a flash of green light the prostitute slumped forward bonelessly. Ana grunted as the weight landed heavily on him, but Tom grabbed the body by the shoulder and flung her to the ground, away from Anathema.

In Tom's hand, the Locket glowed white brightly for a moment. When the light faded, even Ana could tell there was something different about it now. Something evil, that hadn't been there before. 1

 _XXX_

June 1997.

Harry jerked forward in the bed. He gasped loudly, his hand pressed to his mouth to muffle any sound louder than his breathing for fear of waking his relatives up. That wasn't the first time he had watched Voldemort kill someone while he was sleeping. But it was the first time Harry could ever remember, including the times he had watched Dumbledore's memories, where Voldemort had ever hurt anyone in someone else's **defence**. It was startling. It was almost as if Voldemort actually cared about something other than immortality.

Harry had dreamt of Voldemort and the stranger having sex before. He had seen them kiss, and speak, and plot world domination. But this was the first time, the first dream, where Harry could honestly say he believed Tom Riddle might once have been human.

 _XXX_

July 23rd 1997.

Vernon Dursley could never be mistaken for a nice man. People might think he was kind and polite, but those who knew him, knew better. Harry knew his uncle very well, and the longer Harry spent in the man's company the more he hated him. Usually, Harry liked to pass the time by imagining how fun it would be for him to invite his Wizarding friends over to visit him, in his nice, ordinary, normal, Muggle household. He'd never dare, of course, Vernon's wrath wouldn't be worth the small moment of amusement, but it was nice to dream regardless.

Sometimes, Harry imagined what it would be like if someone came to take him away. Or if the Dursleys somehow ended up in prison, or killed in a car crash like they had lied to Harry and said his parents had been. He didn't think he had honestly ever, truly, wished them dead. In his first year at Hogwarts, didn't Lord Voldemort offer to 'take care' of his relatives, and Harry had refused them? After all, where else would he go? Of course, he'd probably also feel guilty about their deaths, but that hadn't been the eleven-year-olds biggest concern.

No, he might have imagined their dying, but when push came to shove, Harry had always hoped no one else would die for him.

Usually.

Right now, Harry was glad he didn't have his wand handy. There was only so much of Vernon's bigoted bullshit that he could take, and Harry just wanted, needed, one more shove in the right direction and he would be happy to curse the Muggle to within an inch of his life. His wand hand was itching to be used, his feet tapped restlessly against the floor, urging him to go searching for his wand. But Harry stayed where he was, silently listening as uncle Vernon verbally ground the boy under his shoe.

"And don't get me started on your mother-!" The man said. He opened his mouth to continue, but Harry's hand was pointed at his face. It clenched at the air, and he imagined the feel of his wand between his fingers and his palm, heavy and familiar in his hand.

"Don't talk about my Mother." Lily Potter had always been a sore point for Harry. His father had died to protect them both, Lily and him, from Voldemort and Harry did love his father very much. But it always hurt more to hear his mother insulted, the same woman who died solely to protect **him**.

"Now see hear, you filthy piece of s-!" Again, Harry cut him off.

" _Sectumsempra_!" He cried. Vernon's eyes went wide, his face paled at the 'magical' word and he backed away hurriedly with his hands in front of his face. But that was the only thing that happened. Without a wand, Harry hadn't been able to cast the spell.

Harry dropped his arm, his fingers clenched at his sides. With wide green eyes, he looked upon the still living form of his uncle, who had now been joined by an equally horrified aunt and cousin.

"I didn't mean… I didn't mean to…" Harry stuttered, his jaw shaking as he tried to force out more words through the lump in his throat. He couldn't speak, he could barely breathe, he was that shocked. Why had he tried to use **that** spell? After seeing what it had done to Malfoy, he had still screamed it out, hoping it would work again and that no one would come to heal Vernon!

He turned away. Ignoring the family that huddled together as if to protect themselves from their own flesh and blood, Harry ran from the house. As if the Death Eaters were chasing him, Harry ran along Privet Drive, then Wisteria Walk, further and further until at last there was no chance of him seeing Number 4.

Then he collapsed to the ground. His scar had started to hurt, and Harry pressed one hand to it, while his right hand unconsciously mimicked the wand movement for the _Sectumsempra_ Curse.

He sat there all night, too horrified to go back and face what he had almost done. How could he go back, knowing that when he returned he would be disappointed that the spell hadn't worked? Harry frowned, squeezing the fingers of his right hand into a tight fist to stop himself from practising the curse.

He promised himself, as the sun was rising, that he would go home, and he wouldn't try to hurt the Dursleys again.

He wouldn't.

He hoped.

 **XXX**

 

Depending on your views about DH, this will have a happy (or sad) ending… happy for me though, since I hated DH.

Thanks for reading the first chapter.


	2. Chapter 2 of 16

Yeah... so i forgot about this site... If someone is actually reading here and wants me to update... give me a nudge every once in a while?

[ ](http://k155-me.livejournal.com/)

**Words:** 4,301  
 **Chapter 2**  
June 31st 1992.

 _The Basilisk lunged for him again. With a scream, Harry jumped backwards, barely missing the snapping motion of the gigantic snake’s mouth. The Sword of Gryffindor was clutched against his chest, his back was now pressed firmly up against the cold wall, and there was nowhere left to run. Even blind, the Basilisk could find him._

Harry trembled. His fingers clenched and unclenched around the hilt of the sword, his other hand caressed the blade lightly, lovingly. This sword was important, something about it made him want to cherish it, and Harry promised himself silently, that no matter what happened to him, he’d make sure that the sword wasn’t damaged.

The Basilisk’s fang dug into his arm. At the same time, Harry thrust the sword up into the soft palate of the snake’s mouth and then into its brain. With a roar, the Basilisk shook its head wildly, wrenching itself away from Harry, but leaving its fang still embedded in Harry’s arm. As the snake died, writhing and shrieking, Harry dragged himself along the ground, one hand holding to the sword with what strength he had left. He wouldn’t let it go. He couldn’t leave it behind.

The fang was in his hand suddenly, and Harry was slamming his hand down over and over again. The fang plunged into the diary, and as it pulled back, ink spurted up into Harry’s face like arterial spray. He stabbed the diary again, smiling in tired satisfaction as Tom Riddle screamed in pain.

Tom began to glow, bright and blindingly white. He kept screaming, and Harry slumped forward tiredly, finally letting go of the fang. Beside him, Ginny stirred feebly, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to look at her for a full minute.

His attention was focused on the Sword of Gryffindor, and the Phoenix that fluttered over it possessively. If Harry had strength, he would have cursed the creature.

 _XXX_

November 1943.

 _Anathema followed warily, his hand held in Tom’s own warm hand. “Trust me,” the teenager said. Voldemort’s eyes were navy coloured, and they looked fondly over his lover’s flushed face._

“Where are we going? Are we there yet?” Ana asked, his voice trembling softly. He was blindfolded, having refused to let Tom cast a spell on his eyes they had resorted to blinding him temporarily the Muggle way. Anathema had never been much fond of the dark. Regardless of whether Tom was with him or not, he still didn’t like not being able to see as he was led down and along a tunnel towards the Chamber of Secrets.

“It’s a surprise. I promise you’ll enjoy it.” The black sash tied around Ana’s head hid his beautiful green eyes from view, but Tom just knew he was glaring. “We’re almost there, lover.”

The sixth-year Slytherin continued walking, and Anathema had no choice but to allow himself to be dragged along behind him.

He could hear something dripping, the sound of water meeting puddles on the ground seemed much louder than before he was blindfolded. Ana’s free hand clenched at his side. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Tom; he did, with his life. But he didn’t like feeling so vulnerable. He had always done his best to be strong and self-sufficient, and being led around blind was the very essence of vulnerable and weak. He wasn’t weak. He wouldn’t be weak. He wouldn’t let his father be right about him.

“Tom can you take off the blindfold please?” Anathema whispered. He squeezed Tom’s hand in his lightly. A moment later, Tom whispered something unintelligible, and the black cloth fluttered lightly to the ground. Ana blinked a few times, trying to re-accustom his eyes to what dim lighting there was in the Chamber.

The walls were dirty and damp, water was dripping down them, and from the ceiling, but Anathema hadn’t expected much in the way of décor. They were sub-basement level after all. No one else knew this place existed, no one alive but them, so it was to be expected that the place would be in need of a good cleaning. Maybe Anathema could convince one of his house elves to come to Hogwarts and not tell his father? Or Voldemort could demand to borrow one of the Malfoys’.

“We aren’t there yet.” Tom promised him. He took hold of Anathema’s hand again, and continued to pull the younger Slytherin along. The fifth-year looked around with wide eyes, as Tom whispered in Parseltongue and the stone wall in front of him suddenly began to break apart.

“It’s like going into Diagon Alley!” Ana gasped, as a gap appeared in the wall, growing bigger brick by brick. Ana broke away from Tom, pulling his hand from his lover’s grasp and rushing forward into the Chamber proper.

This room was dirty as well, but Anathema could care less. He ran through what would almost be a lake of water, rushing from one side of the Chamber to the other uncaring that his shoes were probably ruined. “Oh look, Tom!” He cried, pointing at different parts of the wall as he went along. There were engravings along the sides of the Chamber, most of them written in squiggles and lines, and Tom explained that they were the written form of Parseltongue. Ana traced his fingers along them, trying to memorize their shape. “Say the words, Tom. Please?” He asked softly, green eyes looking towards the other boy imploringly.

And Tom began to read.

Once Anathema had satisfied his curiosity, Tom took him by the hand again. With one tug, Ana was flush against Tom’s chest, both arms around the navy-eyed boy’s neck, while one of Tom’s locked around the smaller male’s waist.

“Hold on.” He told the younger man. “There is someone I want you to meet.” He pointed his wand at their feet, “Levicorpus,” he said calmly. They began to rise into the air. With a large grin, Anathema looked down at the ground, his arms tightening around Tom’s neck. “I won’t drop you,” the Slytherin Heir said softly.

“I know. But you know how excited I get when I fly. I’d hate to forget you weren’t a broom and let go.”

Tom chuckled lowly, his chest rumbling against Anathema’s. “No, but I’m more fun to ride than a broom, am I not?”

Ana blushed furiously and turned his face away with a gasp. The fifteen-year-old still blushed like a virgin at the very mention of anything sexual, despite the fact that Tom had happily ridden him of his virginity that past summer.

They stopped rising. They were now hovering directly in front of the face of Salazar Slytherin’s statue. The actual statue was the height of the entire Chamber, but the face was large enough on its own. The mouth was almost the size of a small door, and as Tom waved his wand at it the statue yawned, it’s lips parting wide enough for Tom to step through and pull his lover in after him.

“Welcome to Slytherin’s inner sanctum. Come on, Ana.” Tom tugged the boy along.

Anathema smiled as he jogged to keep up with Tom’s long-legged strides. He hardly ever got to see Tom this happy and enthusiastic about something that didn’t involve a Dark curse of some sort. It was nice to see Tom acting like an ordinary human once in a while, he thought.

“ **Come here, my lovely. I would like you to meet my mate.** _” Tom hissed loudly. He stopped in the middle of the room, just waiting._

The room they were in was magnificent. Ana wasn’t sure if it had always been this clean, or if it was that Tom had made it a priority to clean the place up, but it looked amazing now. There were shelves filled with books against one wall, a couch and pillows and a divan spread out against the opposite wall, and the bare wall closest to the door they had entered through suddenly sprang open. A Basilisk slithered out of this new door, her eyes closed, and she stopped right in front of Tom and hissed in reply.

Anathema trembled lightly. But not from fear. He understood that the Basilisk was dangerous, but he was with Tom and Tom would never let harm come to him. When Tom spoke, he shuddered again. Hearing his lover speak Parseltongue sent shivers through his body, and Tom found his reaction to the language very pleasing. He rather enjoyed calling out Ana’s name in the snake language during sex, just to feel Anathema tremble beneath him and clench around him in desire.

The Basilisk lowered its great head; its closed eyes were directly in front of Ana’s face.

“Nice to meet you,” Anathema said. Tom repeated his words in Parseltongue.

“She said, you smell delightful.” The Basilisk said something else then, and a frown appeared on Tom’s face. His wand was in his hand, and he waved it threateningly even though the snake couldn’t see, as he hissed out something possibly unpleasant.

“What did she say?” Ana asked, chuckling at Tom’s reaction.

“She wonders, if you came here alone, would she be allowed to eat you,” Tom ground out. “I’ve set her straight, lover, don’t worry.” He reached forward, and wound an arm around Anathema’s waist.

“I wasn’t worried,” Ana said softly, “I’m with you.”

A little while later and Tom had managed to convince the Basilisk to go back inside of its den. He had to lie, apparently, and say that Anathema was leaving and only Tom would be staying behind. Anathema thought the situation might possibly have been amusing, if not for the fact that if the snake didn’t listen, he would very likely be eaten before Tom could help him escape the Chamber. But he was worrying for nothing, as usual.

He was walking slowly around the room, his fingers skimming over paintings and book covers and he sat down on one chair, stood and moved to another, and sat down again, just to try them all out. Tom was lounging on the lone divan, his dairy propped on his chest as he wrote something down on its yellowed pages.

“What are you writing about now, Tom?” Ana asked curiously, as he lowered himself to the floor at Tom’s feet.

“I’m detailing my wrath, should my pet ever succeed in eating you. I want the world to know that it would not be a good idea to try and devour you.” He spoke slowly, his voice almost cold, but Ana looked up in time to see his navy eyes flash with amusement before the light dimmed from them.

“Oh?” He asked curiously, “and what would your wrath be like?”

“Wrathful, lover. What other way should it be?” Anathema scowled lightly at Tom’s ridiculous answer and reached up to smack him lightly on the leg. “What I write about it no concern of yours. When I find out what I need to know, when I know if it is possible, then I will inform you of everything.”

“And when you tell me, and indubitably ask for my help, then I offer it to you freely.” The raven-haired boy promised solemnly. He titled his head back, and Tom leaned down, bending over Anathema, to brush their lips together lightly.

“I demand nothing less than your complete devotion and participation, Ana. You know as such.” Tom teased gently. He closed his diary, trapping his quill between the pages.

“Oh and what of the undying devotion you promised me?” The green-eyed Wizard asked.

“Would you like a demonstration of my devotion?” Tom asked. Without waiting for a reply, he slid from the divan and came to kneel before Anathema. With a light shove, Ana fell backwards onto the carpeted floor. Tom crawled over him, resting above him and held up by his elbows. A soft mouth met his briefly, before Tom pulled back with a smirk.

“And what if I wouldn’t?” Ana teased lightly, even as he leant up to press a soft kiss to Tom’s chin.

“Do you dare defy me?” Tom breathed, before their mouths met again.

 _XXX_

May 1995.

 **“Do you dare defy me, Lucius?” He whispered.**

The blond cowered before him, crouched over himself on the ground, his black Death Eater robes pooled around his legs and his hood thrown back to bare his face. Lucius Malfoy trembled. He was in serious trouble, and he knew it.

He had been ordered to guard the Dark Lord’s diary, to protect it. But it had been so long since the Lord’s defeat that Lucius had halfway thought that the Wizard would never return. He had given the diary to Arthur Weasley’s youngest child in revenge, knowing that her possessing such a Dark object would surely get their family into trouble.

And yet, it had come back on him.

“My Lord, I apologize,” Lucius began to plead. A well-aimed Curse cut him off mid-plea. Lucius screamed as the ‘ _Cruciatus_ **’ burned through his veins. The pain was excruciating, and he begged for it to stop in between his cries of agony.**

“You have no excuse, my slippery friend. You escaped punishment last week. I spared you humiliation before the others, even though you have been most disloyal. But now, now I cannot allow you to suffer lightly.” The Dark Lord, balding and pale, the slits of his nostrils quivered as he took a deep breath, scenting Lucius’ fear, leant over his follower. “You have destroyed something that was precious to me. I hold very little precious to me, Lucius.”

“I swear, My Lord, I swear I’ll atone. I’ll… I’ll do better, I’ll do as you ask, whatever you ask. Only forgive me!” The man was almost sobbing. Proud, Pureblooded Lucius Malfoy was on his knees, begging at the feet of a Half-Blood while trying valiantly to fight back tears of pain and terror. “Please?” He whispered.

A long-fingered hand, bony and cold, came out to run along the side of Lucius’ face. The man was pretty, Voldemort thought. But his looks were nothing compared to Anathema.

The thought of the dead boy struck Voldemort sharply in the chest. It had been decades since he had last thought of his once lover. With the first thought of his name, came more thoughts, memories of times spent with the green-eyed Slytherin. The Dark Lord stepped backwards, away from Lucius, and he watched the cowering man with glazed red eyes.

“Leave my sight, Malfoy.” He hissed angrily. He wanted to kill and torture, but he couldn’t lose any followers so soon after returning. It would scare off any potential new allies. He was insane, not stupid.

Thoughts of Anathema whirled in his mind, mixing with thoughts of Potter who had once again escaped him, and he grew angry. He cast another Curse at the door, but Lucius had already escaped and closed it behind him. His hand clenched around his wand and he hissed, long and low in anger.

He would plan a raid. Just a small one. He wanted to stay out of the Ministry’s attention, just until he had gathered his forces and strengthened his army. But it had been so long since he’d enjoyed a decent spot of Muggle torture.

 _XXX_

August 1st 1997.

Bill and Fleur’s wedding had been beautiful.

Though, as with everything nice in Harry’s life, it didn’t last long. Almost as soon as the vows were done with and the groom had kissed his bride and cut their first slice of cake, Death Eaters began apparating into the grounds of The Burrow. People were screaming and shouting, crying hysterically while running for their lives, but only a few of them had the sense to stand their ground and fight. Harry was one of those.

He raised his wand, levelling it at an approaching man draped in a black cloak. “ _Duro_!” He shouted. He had the pleasure of watching the Death Eater’s eyes widen through the mask, in fear or surprise, Harry didn’t know, before the Wizard turned completely to stone. There was no doubt the spell killed. It had been intended for inanimate objects only, but Harry didn’t have the time to charm plates and cups and hit the Death Eaters with them! He wasn’t going to let anyone die at his brother’s wedding.

“ _Duro_!” He cried in the direction of another masked Wizard. “ _Expulso_!” He hollered a moment later as a Death Eater snuck up behind Mrs. Weasley. Harry hadn’t even realised he knew that spell, he wasn’t even sure what it was for, but it had been the first thing to come into his mind and he had shouted it out without thinking. As soon as the spell struck, the Death Eater exploded, blood and organs and shards of bone like shrapnel flew off in all directions, and Harry dived to the ground to avoid being hit by a severed foot. He didn’t think he’d be using that Curse again unless the fight got desperate, and even then, he hoped no one would see him using it. How would he explain knowing a Curse so Dark, when he didn’t even know how he knew it?

Someone grabbed him around the middle, and instinctively knowing it wasn’t a friend of his, he pointed his wand under his arm and cast the _Entrail-Expelling Curse_. Another Dark spell he hadn’t realized was in his repertoire.

A horrid squishing noise sounded behind him, followed by a plop as the Death Eater’s intestines spewed from his stomach and fell to coil useless on the ground. The Wizard toppled forward, groaning in agony, but Harry merely stepped over him and flung another spell in the direction of another masked man.

It was beginning to be clear that the Death Eaters were winning. Most people hadn’t bothered fighting back. Some of those that had, had already been beaten or given up. Even Harry was surprised that he had lasted so long. If it weren’t for the fact that he seemed to instinctively know half of the spells he had been using, he probably would have been beaten long ago.

No sooner had he lowered his wand and contemplated escaping, Hermione and Ron appeared in front of him. They were wearing his Invisibility Cloak, but he heard them calling him even if he couldn’t see them.

“Come on, mate, get under, quick.” Ron muttered.

Hermione lifted the edge of the Cloak up, so Harry could huddle in under it. “We have your things. I put them into the moleskin bag Hagrid gave you. If I missed anything, then I’m sorry, but we had to be quick.”

“Let’s get out of here. Destroy those _thingies_ , and that snake-faced-bastard, and come home, alright?” Ron asked softly.

Together, all three of them walked slowly and awkwardly towards the fence surrounding The Burrow. The Death Eater’s disapparation wards ended there. Harry hadn’t been legally cleared to apparate, but he knew how and both Ron and Hermione had taken their tests at any rate, and passed. Once they were out of the wards, Hermione took them both by the hand.

“Hold on tight,” she said. Then she spun on her heel, and together all three of them disappeared with a pop.

That night, after settling into their new rooms at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, Hermione made her way to Harry’s rooms. She and Ron were sharing, but he was in the kitchen at the time so he wouldn’t have noticed her gone. That was good for her, but not in any sort of dishonourable way. She merely wanted to talk to Harry, and she thought that perhaps whatever she was going to learn would not be something that would go down well with Ron’s sometimes uptight views on black and white.

“Harry? How did you know those spells?” She asked suddenly, as Harry let her into the room.

“Cut to the chase, why don’t you, Mione?” Harry scoffed before he walked to the bed and threw himself down. “What do you want me to say? I learnt them from the Half-Blood Prince? Well I didn’t. And I didn’t read them in a text book either, or a Dark Arts book, or any other book. I don’t know, Mione. I thought of a spell, and they were the first things I thought of. I just knew them, just like that.”

Hermione made a soft humming noise, not agreeing or disagreeing with anything that Harry had said. She wasn’t sure what to think about his excuse, but she’d give it the benefit of the doubt for now.

“You do know that most of the spells you used are considered Dark?” She asked hesitantly after a moment of silence.

“What gave it away? The blood and guts decorating my robes or the fact that my scar burnt like hell for an hour afterwards? Yeah, I guessed as much, thanks. Do you know what, Mione, I’m not sorry. I shouldn’t have used them, but I’m not sorry did. They would have used Curses like that on me if they were given the chance, so I won’t apologize for beating them to the punch.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at his closest friend.

“Is that how you really feel?” She asked softly, eyes wide.

“No, yes, maybe? I’m so confused. I honestly don’t know how I knew those spells, honest. It scares me that I could perform them so easily, having never known they existed before. And I enjoyed how they felt when I cast them. What’s wrong with me?” He whispered, eyes wide and watering lightly.

Hermione moved towards him and drew him into her arms. “Nothing is wrong with you. You’re frightened, just like we all are. You’re right though; they wouldn’t have hesitated to hurt you. While I don’t agree with the spells you used, I’m glad they were killed by them and not you. I’ll see what I can find out about you suddenly knowing things, if I ever get a free moment. We really should start hunting for those Horcruxes as soon as possible, Harry.” She pulled back and smiled down at him.

“I know, and thanks, Mione.”

“Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She left him alone then, closing the door behind him. Harry couldn’t relax in the bed, until he had raised his wand to the door and muttered an intricate warding charm that he had no hope of explaining his knowledge of. His best bet was to wake up earlier than Hermione so he could remove it, because no doubt she’d interrogate him to find out where he had learnt that as well. He wasn’t sure how he knew these spells, but they were certainly coming in handy.

That night he felt safe in his own room, protected from his two friends who would never have hurt him anyway.

And that night, he dreamt of Voldemort.

 _XXX_

April 1963.

 **The Forest was almost silent. Soft hissing could be heard, along with the rustling of wind through the leaves. There were no other animals in the vicinity, likely, they had been scared away by the dangerous aura of the Wizard who spoke to the snake.**

She was an unnaturally large Cobra, as long as the Wizard was tall, and her scales shone a faint green colour – like Anathema’s eyes.

Lord Voldemort watched the snake, scrutinising her carefully. “You are aware, that I will be putting a piece of me inside of you? **” He asked the serpent. She probably wouldn’t understand what he meant, she was only an animal after all, but he felt he should at least attempt to let her know what she was agreeing to. If she were to be his familiar, and spend the rest of his immortal life by his side, Voldemort would hope she would at least think kindly of him, even if no one else did.**

Though, no one’s opinion of him mattered.

Not since Anath- NO! He would not think on the boy. It had been sixteen years since the young man had died, far too long for Voldemort’s thoughts to still be so focused on him. He needed to purge himself of those kinds of thoughts. He was due back in the Wizarding world soon, back to England, and he couldn’t afford for his only weakness to be so easily discernable.

One more Horcrux should do it, he thought. He had promised himself seven, and this would be the last one. Just one more and he’d pour all of his thoughts of green eyes, and black hair, and pale skin, and soft lips against his own, into the making of his Horcrux and at last, Voldemort would be able to forget.

Everyone deserved forgiveness after all. From some higher power, at least, if not from oneself.

“I had hoped to use the Sword of Gryffindor for my last Horcrux. He would have liked that. But you will have to do. **” He hissed at the snake. He had known her for a week, having met her while traipsing through the Albanian forest searching for somewhere to hide one of his Horcruxes. Nagini, as he had since named her, was convinced that creating a Horcrux, the joining of a piece of his already tattered soul into her body, was similar to ‘mating’. He smirked down at her as he offered his left arm. She wound up the arm, using her coils to pull herself higher, until at last she was wrapped entirely around Voldemort’s person. “** Come then, Nagini, **” he told her, “** let’s go mate. **”**

Together, they went in search of a sacrifice. In order to split ones soul, one had to commit a terrible act, the most terrible and evil act, of murder.

 **XXX**


	3. Chapter 03

Honestly, I forgot I had started posting on this site until someone left a Kudos and I came to see what that was all about :/ Really sorry...   
This chapter is unbeta'd because the beta'd version is missing all of the html :(

ENJOY!

 

 **Words:** 5,550  
 **Chapter 3**  
August 4th 1997.

“Do you think they know we’re here?” Hermione asked. She was peering through the window, peeking out from behind the edge of the curtain she had moved aside, and looking into the square in front of Number 12. Two masked men had appeared there earlier that day. Both were obviously Death Eaters, but neither looked all that dangerous. They sort of just stood there, scuffing their feet and jostling each other when they were bored. But most of the time since they arrived they just stood there, staring.

Harry wondered if there was a spell that would make it possible for people to see _through_ things, like a building. It would be similar to the way Mad-Eye used to see through spells and notice curses with that revolting eye of his. If there were such a spell, maybe the Death Eaters were actually watching them and _seeing_ them. It was possible that they were so calm, so still and non-threatening, just staying quietly outside, because they would know the moment any of the trio tried to leave or get help or fight back.

“I don’t think they know we’re here. They would have sent more of them.” Hermione said. She tried to sound calm and sure, but when Harry looked at her he could see she was trembling. “Right?” She asked, her voice shaking with fear.

“Right,” Harry agreed immediately. He knew better than to share his theory with her. So what did it matter if the Death Eaters could see them? Harry could see the Death Eaters easily enough as well.

“What do you suppose they want?” Ron asked. He was lounged out across a sofa, flicking his deluminator on and off repeatedly. Hermione tsked loudly as the light was sucked out of the room, and just as suddenly the room lit up again.

“Would you stop that?” She hissed at him. “And I’d think it obvious what they want, Ronald.” She scolded. Ron sat up straighter and folded his hands in his lap, looking down at his feet thoroughly chastised. “They want to capture us and kill Harry, no doubt. Myself as well I assume.”

She moved away from the window then. The book of children’s stories Dumbledore had left Hermione in the will was lying opened on the side table, and she picked it up as she made her way across the room. She sat on the couch next to Ron, and he reached over hesitantly to wrap an arm around her shoulders.

“You ok?” He asked quietly. Instead of stating the obvious, Hermione just shook her head silently before laying it on his shoulder.

Harry watched them with a soft smile. His chest hurt at the sight of them, and he didn’t really understand why. For a moment he thought it might be because he missed Ginny, but when he tried to imagine her here, with him, curled up against him, the ache didn’t leave. He thought of the dream he had last night, of how Anathema had curled up in Tom Riddle’s lap, the two of them still children in Hogwarts. He felt a smile flit involuntarily across his face as he remembered how Tom had held Ana to him, much like Ron was doing with Hermione, and Harry could remember _feeling_ safe and comforted in the lap of the Dark Lord. He didn’t feel safe now, and he pulled himself away from his thoughts with a mental slap. He shouldn’t even be thinking about Voldemort!

His eyes strayed back to the masked men outside. Harry crawled up onto the window seat and pulled back the curtain again. He laid his head against the window and closed his eyes. Since they had arrived, Harry had often wondered how long it would be before they would have to leave again. How long would it be safe to hide in the old Order headquarters without fear of being killed or captured in their sleep?

Maybe they should just give up? But he wasn’t a coward and he wasn’t stupid. Giving up meant dying, and if Harry died then he was damning the rest of the Wizarding World along with himself. He could fight back, he supposed; fight for as long as he was able before he either lost or won. But he wouldn’t be weak or vulnerable or useless again. He wouldn’t let the Dursleys be right about him.

Harry stood, and without looking at either of his friends he made his way to the living room door. He was on the front porch by the time Hermione realised what he was planning.

The front porch was still within the radius of the Fidelus Charm, so the Death Eaters couldn’t see Harry. But if he used magic, if he cast a spell on them, then they would know for sure that he was there.

It was so tempting. Just two spells and both of those men would be dead. They would no longer be a threat to Harry or his friends. He hadn’t killed Rowle or Dolohov when they had attacked them in the café on Tottenham Court Road, but that was different. They were in public, it was fair territory. This was Sirius’ home! Harry’s home now. What right did they have to barge into his home and make him feel unsafe?

Hermione’s hand was locked around his wrist. And when Harry tried to raise his wand, he found that he couldn’t. He looked over his shoulder at her. She was frowning at him, her eyebrows drawn down and her mouth set in a tight line. Ron hovered behind her, watching them both warily.

“Come inside,” she told her. Her voice was authorative and calm, and Harry found it hard to disobey. She sounded like Dumbledore had, when he had made Harry promise to poison him. “Please come inside now.”

Harry followed her back in. She slammed the door closed behind them, but the Death Eaters didn’t notice.

Mrs Black’s portrait started wailing, screaming and cursing about Mudbloods and traitors. Hermione and Ron hurried to silence her, but Harry merely watched in detachment as he sunk to the floor warily.

“ **Just be quiet** ,” he hissed at her in Parseltongue.

The shock of hearing the language from someone other than the Dark Lord was enough to silence her. Walburga looked at Harry, her eyes narrowed and for once she kept her tongue. She took in his features, the tiredness of his face and the bags under his eyes. His lips were full and pink, and Harry licked them nervously as she continued to stare at him. The hair was the same colour, but it was really the eyes that caught Walburga’s attention.

“You have his eyes.” She whispered softly. She had been two years older than the other boy, and he had died before she married his brother. But Grimmauld Place was his home long before she had ever moved in, and Walburga remembered him from Hogwarts, and from the portraits her own brother, Cygnus, had painted of the Dark Lord and his lover. There was no mistaking the similarities. How someone else had not noticed, she wondered. But then she supposed that everyone who had once known him was also dead. “That particular shade of green. Anathema’s eyes were that colour too.”

Harry had looked away as she continued to stare, but at the mention of Voldemort’s lover’s name, his head snapped up again. “What do you know about him?” His hands were clenched at his sides, and he felt strangely protective of this person that he didn’t even know. If she dared to say anything offensive about him-

“He was very much missed.” Was all Walburga would say. Harry asked again, but she kept quiet.

She remembered her then-fiancé’s bruises, her brother’s cuts and the burnt out frames of the portraits he had painted, she remembered the anger of the Dark Lord and the way his followers feared for their lives on the night they discovered Anathema’s body. Much like her beloved son Regulus, no one knew how Anathema had died or who had killed him. But what ever had happened, the Dark Lord had been furious. She remembered the years that followed. Lord Voldemort had simply disappeared, returning ten years later and still unable to even speak his lover’s name. He had disappeared again, for longer this second time. And when he returned with Nagini, whatever guilt or anger or grief had plagued him before was no longer an issue.

When he returned that time, war had followed him home.

“Close my curtain, boy,” Walburga said softly. She couldn’t find it in herself to shout at the child before her. He reminded her so very much of Anathema, now that she thought of it. She scoffed softly as Harry leant forward to tug the curtain closed. She caught sight of his scar, peaking out from behind his fringe and she smiled.

Even after all of these years, the Dark Lord still thought of nothing else. “-But you,” was all Harry heard. The curtain closed and muffled her words and he didn’t want to risk the headache her shouting would cause by waking the portrait up again. He wasn’t that curious about what she had been saying anyway.

“Harry?” Ron asked from behind him. “What was that about?”

“Not a bloody clue, mate.” Harry lied, making sure to keep his eyes averted from Hermione’s face. She would have known he was lying straight away and she wouldn’t have a problem calling him on it in front of Ron. He wasn’t surprised that Sirius’ mum knew about Anathema. They would have been at Hogwarts together, they might have even been related to one another, as most Purebloods were. But he didn’t know what the dreams were about or why he was having them, and he didn’t have the time to start trying to figure it out now. It would come to him eventually. He didn’t want his friends to worry or believe he was going crazy again or anything of that sort. So it was best to keep it to himself. “Want to play some chess?”

He didn’t give Ron a chance to answer him. He walked back into the living room, scooped the chess set out from where it had been hidden in a cupboard and began to set up the pieces.

 _XXX_

Remus arrived later that day. The moment the pleasantries were out of the way, Remus had all but demanded that he be told where Harry was planning on running off to.

“I’m not running away, Remus!” Harry shouted. “I’m just not able to go to Hogwarts.”

“You have to come back.” The werewolf snapped. “It’s not safe out here by yourself.”

Harry ran his hand tiredly over his eyes. “Look, Remus, I understand, I do. You’re worried and I’m a kid and you’re an adult. But Dumbledore trusted me to do this. He wanted me to do this, and I will. It won’t be safe for me at Hogwarts, not with Voldemort in charge. Nowhere is safe for me as long as he is still out there, and you have to understand that. If I go back to Hogwarts, he’ll only follow me there. You can’t ask me to put everyone else in danger like that.”

Sandy-blond hair hung down over his eyes, and Remus gave a tired sigh. “Oh Harry. At least let me come with you. I could help you.”

“I don’t need your help.” Harry bite out, fists clenched at his side.

“You need all the help you can get, cub.” Remus whispered. “Especially now. We need to stick together, fight with each other and not against each other. Gryffindors of a feather and all that, right?” He said with a teasing smile.

A sudden anger overwhelmed Harry. He didn’t know why, nor would he be able to explain what exactly happened. Only that he was angry and it was Remus’ comment that made him angry. His scar hurt, just for a moment and then without warning the mirror in the room exploded and shards of glass rocketed across the room. Harry and Remus ducked down, shielding their faces with their arms and with magic.

“I do not accept _Gryffindors_ in my ranks!” Harry spat out the word, his lip curling in distaste for a long second before his eyes suddenly widened. What had he just said? _He_ was a Gryffindor. “Uh,” he murmured, trying to think of something to say, “what I meant was-”

A crack sounded through the room and instinctively Harry raised his arm again to shield his face. But nothing else had exploded. Instead, Kreacher stood in the middle of the room, his bare feet crunching on broken glass as he stepped side-to-side excitedly.

“Kreacher has returned with the thief Mudungus Fletcher, Master.” The house elf croaked. Unnoticed until now, on the ground at Kreacher’s feet, was Dung Fletcher. He was sprawled out on the ground and a few shallow wounds from where he had landed on the glass were sluggishly bleeding.

“You’ve done very well, Kreacher,” Harry told his elf. His eyes flickered back to Remus before he turned his back on the other man completely. He cared about Remus, honestly he did, but he didn’t have time for the werewolf right now. He had just gotten married; shouldn’t he be at home, protecting his wife? Tonks was more in need of Remus Lupin than Harry would ever be.

His wand was levelled at Mudungus’ face.

A smirk worked its way onto the boy’s face, and Dung paled drastically, cringing back from the other Wizard. His eyes shot to Remus’, but the werewolf made no attempt to help him. Harry took a step forward, half of him was relishing in the fear he could practically smell coming off of Dung, but the other half was horrified that he could be so turned on by this show of power.

“We need to talk.”

“This conversation isn’t finished, Harry,” Remus whispered. He placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder and tried not to show how shocked he felt when Harry recoiled from his touch.

“I believe it is.” He said coldly. He glanced in Remus’ direction again, quickly, and then looked away. “Now excuse me, but I have work to do.” The wand was pointed at the Order member again.

Harry waited until he heard the front door slam behind Remus before he started interrogating the Wizard. When threats and raised voices were not enough to get the information he wanted, Harry resorted to trying out some of those curses he knew but had never learned.

“Get rid of him.” Harry ordered, after he had gotten what he wanted.

The red haze that had fallen over him when Remus had asked to join their group suddenly cleared. Harry looked down at his hands, and they were speckled with blood. Someone else’s blood. First he had tried to kill his uncle, then he had imagined murdering those Death Eaters, and he shouted at Remus, and now – now he was resorting to torture.

“It was for the greater good,” he whispered to himself. Maybe if he convinced himself that Dumbledore would have believed this necessary, would have encouraged Harry to do everything possible to find the missing Locket, then maybe he wouldn’t feel so sick?

It didn’t work.

The door opened, and the moment Harry saw Hermione’s head poke warily into the room – her eyes wide and unbelieving and terrified from hearing Mudungus scream – he threw himself to the ground and began to retch. Loud, horrible sounds left his mouth as he emptied everything that was in his stomach. When he was finished he sat back on his heels and turned to watch his friend.

This time, when Hermione moved to comfort him, Harry pulled away. He didn’t deserve sympathy.

“I know where it is. Let’s get to work.”

The next day they would begin monitoring the entrance to the Ministry of Magic. Harry was actually sort of glad that the Locket was in Delores Umbridge’s possession. He would enjoy getting one over on her.

He narrowed his eyes and listened to Hermione and Ron whispering frantically behind him as they walked towards the library.

He’d enjoy it very much.

 _XXX_

March 1945.

 _This was Tom’s final year at Hogwarts._

He was fully prepared to go out into the real world. He had been offered a position in the Ministry; a very high-up position, at that, much better than what any normal Half Blood would ever hope to achieve. And he would only be straight out of Hogwarts as well! But, he supposed, that only went to show that he really was better than everyone else.

Well… most everyone.

He turned his head to the side. Navy eyes softened as they caught sight of the petulant expression on his lover’s face.

Anathema was only in his sixth year, and he wasn’t very impressed with the idea of being abandoned for nine months by Tom. He had almost refused to come to the meeting that night, but fortunately Tom had managed to change his mind.

Tom raised an eyebrow. Ana smiled softly, momentarily forgetting that he was annoyed because Tom would not repeat seventh year just for him. He came closer to the elder boy. Tom was sitting stiffly in a wing-backed chair by the fire, and the rest of his followers within Hogwarts were spread out around the room, standing or sitting on the floor. Anathema stopped behind the chair and leant down to whisper into Tom’s ear.

“He can’t seriously want us to let a Gryffindor into our club?”

Tom looked over his shoulder, meeting Ana’s gaze easily. He smiled reassuringly. He was good at reassuring people, at telling them exactly what they wanted to hear. But he had not once lied to Ana. Ana was different to everyone else. Special. He was different and special, much like Tom had always been. They were equal to each other, similarly strengthed and from similar backgrounds. Both of them Half Bloods masquerading as Purebloods. There would never be anyone else more perfect for Tom Riddle than this green-eyed-boy.

“Our club?” Tom teased.

“Yes. I helped rather a lot with this venture of yours, even if you never allow yourself to admit it. You would never have gotten this far without me!” Anathema glared down at his seated partner, eyes narrowed. Tom thought he looked beautiful, all righteously angry.

“Oh?” He drawled. “But I have the support of your father and sister,” he paused as he spoke, allowing Anathema to let out an annoyed hiss at the mention of Arcturus and Lucretia. “What do I need you for?”

“Those inbred fools?” The boy scoffed, tilting his chin up. He smirked suddenly and said, “Without me Tom, you’d practically die of sexual frustration.” Anathema lowered his voice, leaning down as close to Tom’s face as he could get and breathed against the other boy’s ear. “But if you’d like me to leave, I will.”

“You will not.” Tom said, with his jaw clenched. His hand locked around Anathema’s wrist and he tugged the boy forward harshly. Anathema fell and landed on the ground with a grunt as his knees met the concrete floor at Tom’s feet.

Anathema ignored the stares of the others. Their relationship wasn’t a typical romantic entanglement. He was, sexually, the submissive or the ‘girl’ in the relationship as some people liked to point out. But Ana liked to think that while financially Anathema’s influence outstripped Tom’s, they were at least almost equal politically. If they were going to take over the Wizarding world, Anathema would demand that they do it together, as a team.

So what if on occasion Tom liked to see his lover kneeling at his feet? Tom was a kinky bastard like that. He got off on watching people tremble in fear and prostrate themselves before him. Just because Ana did it, didn’t mean that Tom loved him any less. Anathema was used to people staring at them. He and Tom rarely went anywhere magical together, but when they did most people did have a tendency to find Tom’s overly possessive threatening behaviour strange. And so they stared a lot, and sent Anathema pitying looks as if he were trapped in some sort of domestically violent marriage, and ducked their heads and scurried away whenever either of the lovers met their gazes.

“And don’t worry,” Tom said softly, distracting everyone from watching his kneeling lover. “I will never accept a Gryffindor into my ranks. They have no place here.” 1

“But my Lord!” The man who had started this argument protested. “Charlus Potter is a powerful Pureblood. And he and Lucretia are good friends, and he’ll be marrying into the Back family within the next two years.”2

“He isn’t a Black though, is he?” Someone sneered. “The Potters are always notoriously light sided. That brother of his, ugh.”

“Charlus isn’t like Harold. Charlus actually agrees with learning dark magic to better protect against it.”

“Not to cast it though, I bet.” Antariah Dolohov sneered, her face twisting horribly. “And being friends with Lucretia doesn’t mean much. That bitter witch.” Anathema smirked as he heard the comment. He wasn’t too fond of his half-sister either.

“He’s an Auror already, my Lord,” the man said again. “He could be useful.”

Tom looked down to Ana, who scowled back up at him. Anathema did not like Charlus Potter, and Tom knew it was more about Charlus being who he was than the fact that Charlus had once been in Gryffindor. Potter had always tried hard to help Lucretia keep her brother in line. Anathema despised them both. The only family member he actually cared for was Orion, but being the youngest rather than the oldest Orion wasn’t much use in defending Ana from their father.

“I do not accept Gryffindors in my ranks,” Voldemort repeated again, his tone cold and final. His face was blank as he surveyed the crowd, eyeing them all in turn as he waited to see if they would protest. No one said anything. “Very well. Have those who have been approved should make their way to the forbidden forest in a week’s time. Those who recommended these new people will also be required to be in attendance for the marking next week. I will create Portkeys for distribution among them. No one is to attend but those who I have approved, is that understood? You may leave.”

Some people loitered around the common room, maybe hoping to see if Tom and Anathema would leave so that they could steal the cosy chair by the fire, or maybe to see what Ana and Tom would do once left with privacy. Both stayed where they were, Tom in his chair and Anathema kneeling by his feet. And when the last person had left the common room, or gone into their dorms, Tom waved his wand to ward the area. No one was getting back inside until Tom Riddle felt like it.

“Tom,” Anathema whispered, as he looked over his shoulder. “When you mark the others, will I be there?”

A hand cupped his chin and tilted it up. Tom leant down to press a light kiss against the other’s lips. “Of course you will. Why do you ask?”

“When you mark the others, will you mark me too?” Ana rolled the sleeve of his robe up, exposing the pale flesh of his left forearm. The fingers of his right hand ran lazily up and down the expanse of flesh.

“Why, Ana?” Tom’s brow was furrowed in confusion and he watched the other warily, not sure as to how he should respond. In all of their talks of Death Eaters and Horcruxes and revolution, they had never once discussed Anathema actually being branded like the others.

The thought of marking those other humans as ‘his’ appealed to Tom greatly. In fact, the idea of owning so many willing individuals, all at his beck and call, made Tom feel almost heady with excitement (though his face generally never disclosed the extent of his emotions). The thought of branding Ana, his Ana, was like a punch to the stomach. He had never been a sentimental person, nor did he take well to other people. But Anathema had been made for him. And Tom respected that, revelled in the fact, truth be told: someone so wonderful and powerful belonged solely to him, and wanted to belong to him. But surely there was a better way to show the world that Anathema was his _?_

His eyes strayed, briefly, to the ring finger on Ana’s left arm. He looked up quickly to meet wide green eyes.

“I want to belong to you.” Ana murmured. He stood, rising fluidly, and climbed up onto Tom’s lap. Tom fell back against the chair, his hands grasping Anathema’s waist to steady him as he wobbled forward. “I wish to serve you, in every way imaginable.” He bit down on his bottom lip and averted his eyes, and Tom gave a loud sigh in response.

“You do belong to me. You will always belong to me.” He leered, navy eyes sparkling with lust as his gaze travelled over Ana’s face, “and I wish for you to serve me also.” Ana gave a light giggle, and Tom felt oddly proud of himself for having cheered his lover up a little. “But I will not mark you. You are the closest thing to an equal I will ever find, Ana. You were made to complete me, to help me achieve those goals we both want to see flourish. My Ana,” his thumb stroked lightly across Ana’s cheek. “You are better than them. Those others, they are nothing to you. You will never need to bow to me. I will not mark you, instead you will stand at my side, proud and strong, and together we will usher in a new era. And I will always care deeply for you.”

Anathema smiled warmly at him. His entire face was lit up because of his smile, and Tom thought him utterly beautiful.

“I love you too, Tom.” Ana whispered.

Tom’s jaw clenched and his expression closed off. Ana knew how much Tom hated the l-word, how he could never bring himself to say it even though they both knew Tom was in love with him as well. Tom usually enjoyed hearing Anathema whisper or moan or pant the words, but there were times when Tom was feeling unusually maudlin, and when he heard the words, he hated it because he felt he was disappointing Ana by not saying it back.

“Shall I show you how much I love you?” Anathema continued, seeking to distract Tom from his growing irritation with himself. Their lips met, and though Tom offered resistance Anathema wasn’t deterred. His fingers wound into black hair, his legs spread wider as he shifted forward still on Tom’s lap, to press their groins snugly together. Tom gave a thrust upwards as Ana pressed against him, rubbing through the clothing. “Shall I?” He breathed out, panting, as he pulled out of the kiss.

Tom’s hand dragged him back for another. This time Tom dominated the kiss, forcing Ana to tilt his head back while Tom plundered his mouth, tasting and exploring with his tongue and nibbling on soft pink lips.

“Oh yes,” the elder boy hissed, “do serve me. In the way I desire best.” He licked his lips, smirking as Anathema blushed darkly.

Without warning, Tom’s hands were holding tight to Ana’s waist and he was standing from the chair. He carried Ana for a moment, before kneeling down on the ground, laying Anathema onto the floor. He crawled over the boy, gazing down at him.

A whispered spell later and they were both completely naked. “TOM!” Ana hissed, “We’re in the middle of the common room!” He gasped, arching his back as Tom wandlessly prepared him.

Tom threaded his fingers with Anathema’s, pinning both of the boy’s arms up above his head. “Wrap your legs around my waist, Ana.”

The boy glared, eyes narrowed. “Someone will see us!”

“No one will see us,” Tom assured him. “And if they are so foolish as to get caught, they deserve to be punished.” He grinned widely, baring his teeth.

“So someone is watching us!” Anathema turned his head from side to side, trying to spot someone who might possibly be spying on them. Tom’s mouth descended on his neck, suckling harshly on the pale skin, and Ana threw his head back with a moan.

“Such modesty,” Tom teased as he freed one of his hands. He raised one of Ana’s thighs up, wrapping it around his own waist, and the other leg followed suit automatically. “I’ll cure you of that yet.”

Before Anathema could respond, Tom rocked his hips forward. Ana gasped as the head of Tom’s cock pushed against his entrance. With one more thrust, Tom breeched him, and Ana lay panting from the burn of being filled so suddenly. He reached up with his free hand to tug at Tom’s hair, urging his head down and their lips met viciously again.

His senses went into overdrive. Ana could barely think, and sounds were magnified, the rushing in his ears becoming louder with every thrust from Tom. His eyes were squeezed shut, bright lights exploded behind his eyelids as Tom brushed his prostate purposely. Time blurred, as they remained joined together. What could have been hours later, but was probably only minutes, Anathema flipped them over so that he was now on top. Tom lay back under him, his legs bent at the knees, and Ana leant back against them, bracing himself with his hands on Tom’s chest. He rocked forward, raising his hips slightly while his fingers brushed lightly across Tom’s torso, paying special attention to the man’s nipples.

Tom gritted his teeth to keep from moaning out loud. To distract himself, he grabbed hold of Anathema’s left arm and brought it to his mouth. He kissed the crease of the elbow, running his tongue along the length of the forearm where the Dark Mark would usually be placed.

“ **Would you like me to mark you, Ana**?” He hissed in Parseltongue. He was still kissing the arm while Anathema rode him.

Not understand what Tom had said, Ana merely threw his head back and groaned, “Merlin, yes, Tom.”

With a wide smirk, Tom bared his teeth again. He bit down hard just below where the arm bent, and he could taste the blood welling from the wound and dripping onto his tongue. He sucked at the wound, bruising the area around the bite, and as the pain snaked through his veins, Anathema screamed hoarsely as he felt his orgasm crest. Then break. And suddenly he was coming across his chest and Tom’s and gripping tight to the other boy’s shoulders, while Tom arched up into him once more and released.

 _XXX_

August 12th 1997.

The tingling in his groin spread down to his thighs and up through his stomach. Harry moaned, thrashing in the bed, his head shaking from side to side. His hands fisted in the sheets and his legs trembled as he arched up off of the bed with a cry.

His eyes snapped open.

Harry was flushed and panting, and he felt so unbelievably relaxed, almost boneless as he sank back into the mattress with a gasp. His arm ached, and he clenched his hand twice to distract himself from the pain. Harry sat up in the bed, and eyed the bruise on his left forearm with a frown. His chest continued rising and falling rapidly as he came down from his orgasm, and Harry could feel the accompanying stickiness across his lower stomach.

What had he been dreaming about? He tried to think, but all he could remember was someone touching him all over, kissing and biting him. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as he recalled the word ‘Anathema’ being repeated like a mantra as his dream lover came hard within him, and he gave a horrified groan.

He had just gotten off dreaming about Voldemort. Sex… with Voldemort.

Maybe he didn’t orgasm? Maybe he pissed himself in disgust? He reached into his pyjama trousers and cupped himself. He pulled his hand out again and held it up in the light, examining the white sticky fluid that coated the tips of his fingers.

Nope. Definitely ejaculate.

Harry cursed angrily, his hands fisting at his sides. He threw back his bed sheets, glaring at them with distaste as if they had somehow been the cause for his wet dream. He had dreamt of Voldemort and Anathema before, of them doing _that_ before, but he had never reacted so strongly. And he had never woken up bruised before either.

His fingers traced lightly over the dark purple bruise on his left arm. It was a wide circle, as if someone had bitten down into his skin, and Harry knew that Voldemort had at one point bitten Anathema there. He had marked his lover after all.

And he has marked me twice, Harry thought as he pressed a hand to his throbbing scar.

 **XXX**

Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 04

**Words:** 4,705  
 **Chapter 4**  
September 2nd 1997.

Harry found it a little disorientating to have suddenly grown to be over six-foot tall. It was strange being taller than your friends for once, instead of always having to crane your neck to look up at them. The only other times that Harry could even vaguely have considered himself to be tall were when he was dreaming about being Anathema. The other boy wasn’t as tall as Riddle had been, but he was surely taller than Harry.

Alfred Runcorn was taller than Harry too, much taller, and when Ron spoke to him, Harry automatically looked _up_ , instead of down. The Wizard Ron had Polyjuiced as was shorter than Ron had been, and Hermione’s disguise was short too. Harry felt a brief moment of elation at finally getting to be the tallest of the group. But it was overshadowed by the rising suspicion that he was Polyjuiced as a Death Eater, of all people.

He took a glance around the Ministry as Hermione led them forward.

Not much had changed, but what had been changed had been changed dramatically. The banners that hung from the ceiling with Fudge’s face on them were long gone. Nothing hung there now, and Harry couldn’t help but close his eyes and imagine what it would look like to have giant ‘V’s swaying on banners from the ceiling. Maybe there might have been an ‘A’ up there as well? Harry shook his head, pushing the idea away. He snorted, and wondered if that thought counted as supporting Voldemort?

The old statute and the fountain had been destroyed at the end of his fifth year when Dumbledore and Voldemort had fought against each other in the Ministry of Magic. A new statue had taken its place. Harry had never been a fan of the old statute. It had always seemed so malignant, as if the Centaur was just waiting to crush the house elf’s head, or turn on its Wizard friend. Or perhaps it was the Wizard waiting to turn on the Centaur?

This new statute seemed nicer. It was a statue made from black stone, and it looked down imperiously upon the Ministry workers going in and out of the fireplaces in the Atrium. At the base of the statue, engraved in four-foot high letters, were the words, “MAGIC IS MIGHT”. There were two thrones, and a Wizard and a Witch sat upon one each. Both were smiling widely, almost kindly, and it seemed too out of place to have been thought up by Voldemort. Harry had almost expected some kind of Totalitarian tribute to himself, a Voldemort-statute with one arm raised and a sneer on his lipless mouth.

Harry actually liked this statute.

Beside him, Hermione gave a horrified squeak. “Muggles,” she said, pointing at the base of the statue, “in their rightful place. Come on.” She tried to usher them forward. Behind them, a handful of Wizards stood around, still coming out of the fireplaces and mingling momentarily with each other. A few waved at Reg Cattermole (who was really Ron Weasley) but when they spotted Harry none of them dared come over.

Harry didn’t let Hermione pull him away. Instead he walked closer to the statue, one hand raised up slightly as if he desired to touch it but wasn’t sure whether he would be allowed.

He remembered this. He had dreamed of this. Of Voldemort and him – no, Voldemort and Ana, not him – talking in front of the fireplace in a hotel room, looking out of the window into some Muggle city and listening as Voldemort promised him that one day, soon, he’d put the Muggles in their proper places. Anathema had agreed fully with him, had promised to help Tom achieve his goal to overthrow the Ministry and destroy the Muggles, and Voldemort had smiled – widely, and honestly – in response.

The two magical statues weren’t actually sitting on thrones, like Harry had originally thought. Instead, they were seated upon mounds and mounds of dead bodies. Men, woman and children, all crammed together to support the weight of the Witch and Wizard, and their faces were twisted as if they were still in pain. Harry thought fleetingly of the pictures he had seen in some art book, of the Last Judgement and how those humans in hell had seemed to scream and plead for all of eternity, even though they weren’t real, had never been real and were only an immortalisation of a man’s nightmare. This statue was sort of like that. Harry knew that those Muggles weren’t real, he knew they were only carvings in a block of stone, but for a moment he thought that he could hear them screaming.

He gritted his teeth, unsurprised to find out that he wasn’t as bothered by the display as Hermione seemed to be. It was a horrible thing to display inside of the Ministry. But Voldemort was winning. What did they expect?

He finally allowed Hermione to drag him away, ignoring the shocked gasps that echoed behind him as a lowly record-keeper for the Ministry dared to grab the arm of a Death Eater.

It wasn’t long before they found what they had come looking for. Delores Umbridge practically landed herself right into their laps. She entered the same lift as them, accompanied by the new Minister for Magic, Pius Thicknesse, and two other men Harry couldn’t recognize. Though they seemed to know him, if the wary looks they were shooting each other were anything to go by. He ignored them completely, keeping his attention focused solely on the golden locket that hung around Umbridge’s flabby throat.

The lift stopped at his destination, but Harry didn’t move. He was too engrossed by the site of Voldemort’s locket. Finally, they had found it. It was there, within his grasp and there was no way he was walking out of that elevator without it.

Umbridge seemed to notice where he was looking. At first, she appeared flattered that such a handsome and dangerous man was staring at her chest, but then she realised that he was looking at her jewellery. She tucked the Locket back in under her blouse and Harry felt a horrible pang of loss snake through him as it disappeared from his sight.

“Family heirloom,” she told him loftily. “The ‘S’ stands for Selwyn. I am related to the Selwyns… indeed there are few Pureblood families to whom I am not related.” She said this while staring at Harry, as if daring him _not_ to like her.

Harry merely turned his face away. Now that the Locket wasn’t within his view anymore, there was no longer anything worth looking at in Umbridge’s direction.

Ron was already gone, and Hermione had just been about to follow after him when Umbridge had entered the lift and demanded Mafalda’s services. Hermione didn’t want to get the poor Witch in trouble and so she had no choice but to go along with whatever Delores and the Minister wanted.

The lift went down, and when it stopped Harry allowed the others to get off first. Umbridge was now apparently the Head of the Muggleborn Registration Commission, and as she led the way to Courtroom Ten Harry felt a chill creeping over him. Dementors, he thought, suddenly wary. What if they had been discovered?

But as they rounded the corner, Harry knew his suspicions were incorrect. The Dementors were not for him or his friends. Instead, they swept up and down the long corridor outside of the Courtrooms, guarding the handful of trembling people who sat huddled on benches. They looked towards their group as they passed by, eyes wet with tears and none of them dared to beg for help from known Death Eaters. Though Hermione was subject to numerous pleading glances.

“What?” She whispered, looking around in confusion.

“Ah I forgot! You’ve never been down here before, have you Mafalda?” Umbridge snickered lowly, eyeing the Muggleborns around her with disgust and amusement. “These _filth_ have dared to lie about their Blood Status, and as such they are here to be punished.”

“They are all Mudbloods?” Harry asked, his words deep and low as he spoke in Runcorn’s voice.

“They are, Alfred!” Umbridge said. She gave him a wide grin, obviously pleased at the tone he had used.

Harry hadn’t meant to speak with such derision in his voice, but he had, and Hermione had noticed. She was casting him wary looks, half hoping that he was only playing along to avoid suspicion. Before he could help himself, he said, “The Dark Lord is doing a marvellous job of carrying out our plans.”

Hermione gave a gasp, which she attempted to disguise by coughing. Delores ignored her in favour of turning her sickeningly familiar smile on Harry. “Oh Alfred!” She cooed, “I’m so pleased you agree! I knew you would. It’s why I let you come down with us.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, and Harry smirked in response. No doubt, tomorrow at work, Runcorn would be subject to some of Delores Umbridge’s not-so-subtle flirting. Harry sort of wished he could be there to see it.

She linked arms with him as she pushed open the doors to the Courtroom and called in the first Wizard in the queue. Harry didn’t catch his name, but the man kept insisting he was a Half Blood and related to some broom designer named Alderton. Harry’s attention was more focused on the golden Locket that was once more in full view.

“ _Stupefy_!” He shouted just as the doors of the Courtroom slammed shut.

“Harry!” Hermione scolded, but she was quick him help him stun and bind the other Death Eater’s in the room.

“I wasn’t going to wait any longer,” he hissed under his breath. “I need that Locket now.” Without waiting, he strode forward and all but ripped the Locket away from the Witch’s throat. He caressed it reverently, remembering the day it was made and how Voldemort had made it by protecting him. No. Not _him_. Voldemort had been protecting Anathema.

Harry slipped the Locket over his head. Hermione had her wand in her hand, and her knuckles were white as she gripped it tight. Her eyes were narrowed on his face, and his hands, which continued to stroke over the elaborate ‘S’ on the front of the Locket.

“Let’s find Ron and get out of here,” Harry said.

“We need to help these people,” she replied, slightly stunned that Harry hadn’t suggested it first.

“Yeah.” Harry looked around, frowning. The Mudblood from earlier was cowering in his chair, his hands raised in front of his face and he was peeking at Runcorn through his fingers in terror. “Yeah, we should help them.” It took a lot to force those words from his mouth. There were other things Harry wanted to do. Be alone with his Locket for one, and torture Umbridge for another. He did not, however, want to waste his time rescuing Mudbloods and Blood traitors.

“Harry!” Hermione hissed, already sheparding the other Wizard towards the doors. “Come on!”

Harry followed her, his eyes lingering on Umbridge’s unconscious form as he passed by. When Hermione was on the other side of the Courtroom doors, Harry paused and levelled his wand. He’d just try it, he told himself; it probably won’t work anyway. But it wouldn’t hurt to just try it.

“ _Crucio_!” He hissed, feeling the hate that was necessary coursing through him. Even though she was stunned and unconscious, Delores began to writhe, and for a moment Harry imagined he could hear her screaming.

 _XXX_

September 5th 1997.

Obviously knocking out a handful of Ministry officials, stealing the Horcrux and trying to lead a group of accused Mudbloods to freedom had not been part of their original plan. Well, the Horcrux stealing _had_ been, but the rest hadn’t been. It had unsurprisingly drawn a lot of attention to them when they had run from the Courtroom, chasing behind a glowing white stag and an otter Patroni. The fact that Yaxley had woken up and chased them into the Atrium screaming “seal the floo” didn’t help matters much either. And then he had grabbed hold of them as they tried to apparate out of the Muggle toilets.

It had all gone so wrong, and it pissed Harry off very much. If Hermione hadn’t made him rescue those Muggleborns then Ron wouldn’t have gotten splinched. Voldemort now undoubtedly knew that Harry had been in the Ministry and Umbridge was bound to know the Locket had been taken by one of them. Hermione was too afraid to go back to Grimmauld Place because it would be the first place the Death Eaters went searching for them. When they had apparated, Yaxley had grabbed hold of Ron, which had caused Ron to splinch away a chunk of his arm. But it also had the disastrous effect of alloying a Death Eater inside the ‘ _Fidelius Charm_ ’ that protected Number 12.

So now he was sleeping on the floor, surrounded by moss and twigs and overshadowed by a canopy of trees. Hermione had set up a tent, but it was Ron’s turn to wear the Locket and Harry wouldn’t get any peace if he tried to stay in the tent with the others.

This was the third forest they had moved to. Hermione didn’t want to stay in one place for too long, especially since the last time they had disapparated away from the Death Eaters they had been found within minutes. The second place they had pitched their tent had turned out to be near a town filled with Dementors, and while Harry was wearing the Locket he found that he was unable to cast a ‘ _Patronus Charm_ ’.

The pain in Ron’s arm made him cranky, and the difficulty they had in finding mood only made him more so. But when it was Ron’s turn to wear the Horcrux he was downright unpleasant. And he seemed to blame Harry for his current misfortunes.

Ron’s two more frequent questions were “where’s the food?” and “where to next?”. He never offered suggestions, content to sit back and let Harry and Hermione try and determine where Voldemort may have hidden the Horcruxes. And whenever Harry went to say Voldemort’s name, Ron would scream “YOU-KNOW-WHO” at him. It was very, very annoying. It had been a habit of Harry’s, using the Dark Lord’s self appointed name, and it was a hard habit to break as well. What was worse was that Ron had insisted that Harry show You-Know-Who some respect! Respect? For the man who murdered his parents?

“If there was one place that was really important to You-Know-Who, it was Hogwarts!” Harry shouted. No matter what the others thought, Harry knew Voldemort would have hidden at least one Horcrux there. It was the most obvious place, other than giving it to Anathema. And Voldemort had given Ana a Horcrux – the Ring. Anathema had worn it after his graduation, and Harry got the feeling that it was important to him, more so than if it had simply just been a Horcrux. Harry didn’t know yet how Anathema Black had died, but he assumed that it wasn’t from natural causes. He was definitely dead though, from what Walburga had said, and why else would Voldemort have taken the Ring away and left it back at his uncle’s house?

“Oh come on,” Ron scoffed. “His school?”

“Yeah, his school! It was his first real home, the place that meant he was special, it meant everything to him, and even after he left-” Ron started laughing, and Harry stopped talking suddenly at the sound. He watched his red headed friend, his eyes lingering on the Locket around Ron’s neck before moving up to meet his eyes.

“This is You-Know-Who we’re talking about, right? Not you?” He said with another laugh. His pale hand touched the Locket briefly and Harry had the sudden urge to leap across the distance, grab hold of the Locket and choke Ron with it.

 _XXX_

September 12th 1997.

They were fighting again, Hermione noticed. They had been fighting an awful lot lately, and each time, Ron was the one to start it. He had even started screaming at _her_ the day before because he didn’t like how she had cooked the fish. He was wearing the Locket again, it was Ron’s turn, but Hermione wished that she had never suggested they take turns with it.

Despite the fact that Harry couldn’t cast a Patronus with it on, he had never been subject to the terrible mood swings Ron suffered, and even Hermione lost her temper while wearing the Locket. Harry always seemed more cheerful when it was hung around his neck, and she had noticed worriedly that he had a strange habit of caressing the ‘S’ engraved on the front. His behaviour was worrying, but Hermione couldn’t help feeling how she did. It made her feel guilty and sick with herself, but she’d rather Harry wear it all of the time, caressing be damned, than have to suffer through much more of the boys’ fights.

“Shut up!” She shouted from inside the tent, but they ignored her. Harry had run from the tent sometime ago, trying to escape Ron, but the redhead had just followed him outside still shouting.

“-There’s some other damn thing we’ve got to find. Just adds to the list of stuff you don’t know.”

“I don’t know?” Harry hollered. Hermione peeked out of the tent, watching as Harry balled his hands into fists and ignored the rain that was starting to fall heavily. “ **I** don’t know!”

“It’s not like I’m having the time of my life here, you know, with my arm mangled and nothing to eat and freezing my backside off every night. I just hoped, you know, after we’d been running around for a few weeks, we’d have achieved something.” Ron clenched his teeth, and he glared fiercely at Harry.

“So what part isn’t living up to your expectations?” Anger was rising inside of him, and Harry had to take several deep breaths before he could even try and speak again. “Did you think we would be sleeping in five star hotels and finding Horcruxes every other day?”

“I thought you knew what you were doing!” Ron screamed back. “I thought you had a plan!”

Harry gritted his teeth. Spells flashed through his mind. Which one to use? Which would be more effective, more painful? He wanted Ron to shut _thefuck_ up, and the boy just kept on and on and on. ‘ _Evanesco_ ’ maybe, but could you Vanish a person without the use of a Vanishing Cabinet? Harry could try it: it would make Ron stop. He wouldn’t have to listen to anymore. He was so sick of it.

In the background he vaguely heard Hermione begging Ron to take off the Locket, pleading with him to calm down.

“Why are you still here?” Harry whispered. He didn’t want to know the answer, he knew he wouldn’t like the answer, but he had to ask. Maybe Ron would leave, and then Harry wouldn’t actually have to curse him. As long as he **stopped complaining for one minute**! “Go home then!”

“Maybe I will!” Ron hissed, his face as red as his hair. Ron went for his wand, but Harry was faster. A second later, Ron was on the ground curled up and moaning to himself. Hermione’s ‘ _Protego_ ’ had been cast too late. Harry didn’t know what he had cast, he hadn’t even said anything – just waved his wand – and Ron had dropped. But at least he wasn’t screaming, that was a good thing, he hoped.

Hermione ended the spell, her hands trembling and she nearly dropped her wand twice as she tried to do the correct movement.

“Leave my Horcrux,” Harry said when Ron finally managed to scramble to his feet. The redhead didn’t even look in Harry’s direction as he pulled the Locket over his neck and flung it onto the ground. Harry bent down to pick it up, wiping the mud off of the face of it and hanging it gently around his own throat. His fingers kissed the golden surface, caressing it lightly, lovingly, but this time Hermione didn’t notice because she was chasing after Ron, begging him to stay. He didn’t.

“H-He’s gone,” she stuttered out, through her tears. “Disapparated,” she told Harry, as if he cared.

His hands clenched around the Locket, hiding it from her eyes. “Right. Well I’ll look after this from now on, alright?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Harry headed back into the tent, out of the rain, and left Hermione on her own to cry.

 _XXX_

September 15th 1997.

When Harry wore the Locket he felt lighter. As if the motion of placing the chain around his neck severed other bonds that burdened him. With the Locket in his possession, on his person, Harry felt freer than he had in a very long time. A part of him no longer feared Voldemort’s wrath. He should do, he knew that, but he couldn’t find it in himself to worry about killing or being killed. All he cared about – all he should care about – were the dreams, and his Locket.

“Hermione,” Harry whispered, turning his head to the side so that he could look at his friend.

Hermione was lying on her back with her arms folded across her chest and a sad smile on her face. She looked over at Harry and smiled softly. “Yes?”

“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” A frown crossed Hermione’s lips as Harry spoke. His hand was once again petting the Locket, and he tore his eyes away from Hermione to look almost reverently upon the golden pendant. “Are you sure we should be destroying them?”

“Harry!” She gasped, bolting upright instantly. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean, Dumbledore always said that the power he knows not was love. Why would destroying parts of his soul be considered an act of love? Maybe I’m meant to find a way to piece them all together again?”

“Well,” Hermione said slowly. She crawled towards him, still frowning. “I thought that was what happened? When we destroy a Horcrux, does the soul fragment not seek out the rest of itself and join together? When the Diary was destroyed, Tom Riddle didn’t really die did he? Isn’t that why You-Know-Who suddenly got stronger, after thirteen years? Because another part of his soul had returned to him?” 1

“I suppose,” Harry said with a sigh. “But it still doesn’t feel right to kill him, over and over again, destroying the things he created and loved.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t love them, Harry. They’re inanimate objects!” She scoffed at the thought. From the way she said the word ‘love’, Harry knew she believed Voldemort incapable of the emotion. But he knew that it was possible. Whatever had happened between them, there had been a time when Lord Voldemort had loved Anathema beyond reason. Walburga Black had implied that love had transcended beyond Ana’s death, even possibly reaching as far into the present as that very day. Perhaps the reason Voldemort was so heartless and cold was because he had loved, and _lost_?

“It still doesn’t feel right.” Harry insisted.

She sighed and stood, towering over him with her hands on her hips. “Honestly. Where are you getting these ideas? They have to be destroyed, Harry. Dumbledore wanted you to do it! Destroying Horcruxes are what this whole mission is about. If we aren’t going to do that we may as well go back to Hogwarts and let them round us up for questioning and containment. Is that what you want, Harry? To crawl back with your tail between your legs and have the **Prophet** be right about you?”

He shook his head but didn’t answer her.

“Harry, we have to do this. You know we have to do this. We can’t let that monster win.”

“He isn’t a monster!” Was the first thing that came into Harry’s mind. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and Hermione’s eyes widened as she took two steps away from him. Harry couldn’t help but see Tom with Anathema, how Tom behaved with Anathema, and he suddenly wasn’t able to think of Voldemort as a monster. The man had killed his parents, true, had tried to kill him several times, and had murdered so many other innocent people, but he was still human. “I don’t know, Mione. I just, I don’t know. I’m so tired.”

He didn’t know why, but he was suddenly exhausted. His shoulders shook and his hands trembled, and Harry had to bite his tongue hard to stop himself from crying.

“It’s ok,” she said, pulling him into her arms. “It’ll be ok. We’ll get through this.” She rubbed his back lightly, her hands moving in soothing circles, and Harry let himself sink into her embrace. With his face pressed against her neck, Harry thought about the Horcruxes and Voldemort and death.

And as his scar began to throb, Harry was pulled into the mind of the Dark Lord.

 _XXX_

September 15th 1997.

The Death Eaters watched the Dark Lord warily. Lucius Malfoy’s face was still bruised but less swollen. The younger ones were not there, having been sent back to Hogwarts. The old familiar faces of the Inner Circle crowded around, filling up the front of the room, shoving the less important members behind them out of the way. And there was Yaxley. He was crouching on the ground, bowing low before the Dark Lord, and all of his visible skin was discoloured, yellow and purple, decorated with those bruises and shallow cuts that had long stopped bleeding but had yet to heal.

Voldemort levelled his wand at the Death Eater, but didn’t cast anything. The man had already been punished for allowing Harry Potter to escape the Ministry at the start of the month.

“Rise,” he said, at last tiring of hearing the man’s whispered pleas for forgiveness.

Yaxley stood, looking over at the only seated man in the room warily, before moving back to take his position in the crowd. “My apologies, my Lord. It won’t happen again. The next time I see him, I will kill Harry Potter!” He bowed again, assuming he had pleased the Wizard.

Instead, he was hit with the ‘ _Cruciatus Curse_ ’, and Yaxley fell to the floor, shrieking and writhing as pain drove through his body, setting his very being alight.

“Potter belongs to me!” Voldemort screamed. His red eyes flashed, anger brightening them, and he stood from his seat and pointed his wand at the fallen man’s head. “He belongs to _me_ , is that understood? None of you are to touch him! He is _mine_!”

He cursed Yaxley once more, before demanding that everyone left his sight. Even Lucius, who had grown almost used to being forced to wait upon Voldemort hand and foot (like Wormtail used to), was made to leave the room.

Nagini lifted her head from the floor and looked over at her master. “ **What troubles you, Tom?** ” She hissed. Since Anathema died, Nagini had become the only person to use his given name to his face.

Voldemort let out a rush of air, leaning his head back to knock against the chair. “ **If I get rid of Potter then there will be no one to contest me, and I can continue doing well, making the changes that I am. I think I’m doing well. Do you think Ana would have thought so too?** ”

“ **I did not know him, master.** ” She said softly, coiling up around his legs until she rested comfortably in his lap.

“ **No, you didn’t.** ” He smiled softly, his lipless mouth stretching wide for a second as he petted the scales on the top of the snake’s head. They were _almost_ the same colour as Ana’s eyes. “ **I think he would have been pleased. He would have thought I was doing well.** ” His free hand clenched tightly around the armrest of the chair. “I know he would have.” He whispered to himself in English and Nagini didn’t answer.

 **XXX**

 

:)


	5. Chapter 05

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, you guys have got to remind me that I have an account here!!

**Words:** 4,601   
**Chapter 5**  
December 17th 1946. 

Knockturn Alley was all but deserted by the time Anathema turned onto the road. Behind him, Diagon Alley was still packed full of people. He paid them no mind, instead walking silently forward, head lowered to avoid the gaze of the one or two hags that lingered on the street. Borgin & Burkes was brightly lit, but just as empty as the street it was situated on. Only two people were inside. 

Anathema smiled as Tom stepped around the store counter and moved towards him. Their lips met softly and Ana wound his arms around Tom, locking the elder boy in place. 

“I’ve missed you,” Tom breathed softly, as they pulled apart. His hand clasped one of Ana’s, linking their fingers together, as he tugged the boy in the direction of the counter. 

“Yes, well, good. You shouldn’t have left me at Hogwarts by myself.” Anathema narrowed his eyes at Tom, still sore about the fact that Tom refused to repeat his Seventh Year. Initially Tom had refused his request in favour of a Ministry placement, which he had then declined in favour of working in a Dark Arts artefact store. Having accompanied Tom to Little Hangleton, and after all that had occurred there, Tom had finally confided to him what, exactly, he wrote about in his diary. Anathema knew that Tom wanted more Horcruxes, and Borgin and Burkes was a good place to look for the items, but it still left him a little offended that Tom had abandoned him in order to work there. 

Ana looked around, his nose wrinkling with disgust. He was tempted to say something about house elves, or the utter lack of them, but he held his tongue. Tom was ashamed enough about this being his first job. The young Lord Voldemort had wanted very badly to work in the Ministry, as Under Secretary to the Minister for Magic no less, but if he had there would be no more chances to create Horcruxes. He had promised himself seven, and seven he would have. 

“So, how goes the search?” Ana asked, his hand still held tightly in Tom’s. 

The elder boy turned sharp navy eyes on his lover, and they narrowed in thought. “This is the first time you have enquired after my hobby. Does this mean you forgive my abandonment of you?” 

Ana shrugged his shoulders, a small smile playing on his lips. “I only have till June, and then we’ll be inseparable, right?” Tom gave a slow, sure nod. “Then I can wait. So, are you going to tell me what you have found?” 

Across the counter, Tom had laid out several magical objects, as well as photographs of several other objects. Two photos in particular stood out. One was a small golden goblet, with a badger engraved on the front, and the other was a locket the size of a chicken egg, hanging from a thick golden chain. Ana reached out to trace the ‘S’ on the locket’s photo and smiled. 

“Slytherin?” Tom replied with a grin and a smug nod. “Where is it?”

“The other is Hufflepuff’s Cup. It is currently in the possession of a Mrs. Hepzibah Smith. I am attempting to convince her to allow me to… study the object, for academic purposes, you understand.” Anathema chuckled lowly understanding perfectly what Tom wanted from Smith, and it was more than simply research opportunities. “Mr. Borgin assures me that the Locket was once in his possession. I was less than pleased to learn that he cheated my mother out of a great deal of money when he bought the Locket from her.”

“And even less pleased, I bet, to learn he sold it on?” Ana squeezed lightly on Tom’s hand, and the murderous light in the elder boy’s eyes faded slightly. 

“I have yet to determine to whom the gentleman, who purchased the Locket from this establishment, sold the item on to. But I’m sure it won’t be too much longer before I have both items in my possession.” The other objects on the counter were ignored, and as Tom made no reference to them Anathema assumed they had already been crossed off of the ‘potential’ list. 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to use an item whose location you are already aware of? What’s wrong with something of Gryffindor’s?” Tom chuckled, his head thrown back in mirth, and Ana watched him stunned at the sight the other boy made. He was so beautiful, so relaxed and carefree in that moment, and Anathema couldn’t help himself. “I love you.” The words came so suddenly, and just as suddenly Tom’s laughter stopped. 

Ana was so used to how he felt, and so he was easily able to admit to his feelings, and sometimes he forgot that the same could definitely not be said for Tom. Tom turned to face him, and a hand came out to cup Ana’s chin gently, the thumb stroking across his bottom lip. “Do you truly wish to steer the conversation onto this topic?”

“I do love you, and I don’t mind that you don’t say it. You don’t have to feel guilty Tom, I understand.” The hand on his chin squeezed, and Anathema fell silent. “The Sword is already at Hogwarts. How hard could it be to obtain it? I could get it for you.” 

The hand fell away. Instead, Tom’s arms wound around Anathema’s waist, pulling the boy closer towards him; he placed two soft kisses against Ana’s cheeks. Tom stared straight into Ana’s eyes as he said, “I will never entrust my soul to a Gryffindor, or his possessions.” Anathema smiled slowly, allowing his lips to draw upwards before straightening out again. 

“No need to endanger yourself.” Tom added. He continued to stare into Anathema’s eyes, and the boy smiled again, this time wider and brighter than before as he caught the silent message. _I love you_ , Tom’s eyes told him what Tom’s mouth never would. 

“Ok,” Ana acquiesced quickly, his heart thrumming inside of his chest, “no Gryffindors.” 

“Never,” Tom said with a teasing smirk. Before Ana could respond, Tom’s lips claimed his and the arm’s Tom had wrapped around his lover tightened, drawing them flush against one another as they kissed. 

_XXX_

December 17th 1997.

Harry hardly ever dreamt about Voldemort’s past experiences. His dreams were only ever centred on Anathema Black; himself in a past life. But there were occasions when Harry would relive a moment of Tom Riddle’s life, whether he wanted to or not. When Voldemort was awake, and angry enough, Harry was drawn into his mind. He was able to feel and watch everything that Voldemort was doing, which usually meant he was forced to watch as people were tortured and slaughtered. 

Voldemort’s dreams were another story altogether. When Harry was drawn into Voldemort’s dreams they always had something to do with Anathema. The more of the Dark Lord’s dreams Harry was a witness too, the less he could think of the man as merely a monster. He knew it was stupid of him to think like that. The man would kill him if given the chance, and it wouldn’t do Harry any favours to hesitate to attack Voldemort first the next time they came face to face. 

Maybe it would help Harry’s peace of mind to learn exactly how Anathema died. But until he knew for sure, he didn’t think he would be able to stop himself from feeling some degree of pity for the man the monster had once been. 

_XXX_

July 12th 1957. 

Headmaster Dumbledore folded his fingers beneath his chin and gazed at the latest applicant for the Defence Against the Dark Arts position. The year before, Albus had been promoted to the position of Headmaster. Since then he had been re-evaluating the existing teaching staff, and where necessary replacing them. 

Tom Riddle had always been a brilliant student. He was charming and intelligent, motivated and organised, and no doubt powerful. All in all he would have made a brilliant professor of magic, but there had always been something about him that Albus didn’t trust. 

Ten years ago, the body of Tom’s lover had been discovered, but the killer had never been captured. Around the same time, Riddle had left England behind, and had only recently reappeared. Albus couldn’t help but find that suspicious. It reeked of a guilty conscience, only for the fact that he doubted a person like Riddle even knew what guilt was. 

The man was as handsome as he ever was. Wide navy eyes, a pale but chiselled face, and the same soft mop of jet-black hair that curled just barely above his ears and eyes. On the outside, Albus could see nothing that would hint to Tom’s true nature, but Dumbledore had suffered his fair share of guilt and murder to be able to pinpoint a kindred spirit. Tom had done some very wrong things in his childhood and adolescence. Unlike Albus, Tom would never admit or repent these acts. Albus had his suspicions, but he doubted anyone would believe him. Being the defeater of Grindelwald was one thing, but combined with the fact that he was also Gellert’s creator and with Tom being _the_ best student Hogwarts had ever produced, and the fact that Tom had undeniably loved the younger Slytherin, Albus knew that no one would ever blame Tom for the death of Anathema Black. No one, but him, and Tom himself, it seemed. 

“Why do you want this job, Mr. Riddle?” Dumbledore asked, narrowing his eyes. 

Tom smiled at him softly, and it was a smile that only Ana had ever borne witness to. Navy eyes were locked onto the Sword of Gryffindor, hanging from the wall beside Dumbledore’s head. “I have missed my home, Sir.” His eyes traced the length of the Sword, memorizing every possible detail from across the distance. “Is that not reason enough?”

“Do you like the Sword, Tom? You seem to be staring at it an awful lot.” In fact, since Tom had first entered the office and greeted Dumbledore, he eyes had not left Gryffindor’s Sword.

“A-Anathema was fond of it.” It pained Tom to speak his dead lover’s name. Albus didn’t doubt that Tom had once loved the other boy, just as he didn’t doubt that Tom was responsible for Anathema’s death. But no one knew how the boy had died, where he had died, nor who had actually killed him. Tom knew, of course Tom knew, but he would never tell. Perhaps the Dark Lord had already carried out his revenge, and that was where he had been for the past decade? Dumbledore doubted that theory. Voldemort’s revenge would have been much more public; he would have wanted everyone to know that Anathema had been avenged. 

“I see,” Dumbledore said. 

He didn’t know what else to say. How does one ask whether someone else was the reason another was dead? He couldn’t come right out and accuse Tom of murdering the other boy, of course. What reason would Tom have had to kill the man who was carrying his heir? Perhaps it was an accident… accidents did happen; Dumbledore knew that all too well. 

“Do I qualify for a second interview, Sir, or do I get the job straight out? You know I am more than qualified.” A lazy grin spread across Tom’s face, and he finally tore his eyes from the Sword to look into Dumbledore’s own. The Sword would be his final Horcrux. He had one more to go, and Ana had been enamoured of the Sword back in their Hogwarts days. He would use this, the Sword of Gryffindor, regardless of his distaste for the item, because it would have pleased Anathema. 

“I am very sorry for your loss, Tom. It goes without saying that Anathema was a particular favourite of mine, despite some of his associates.” Tom narrowed his eyes at the veiled insult, and Dumbledore allowed a small quirk of his lips in response. “There is no doubt that you are qualified, but I regret to inform you that you will never teach at Hogwarts.” 

Tom’s eyes were back on the Sword, and as Dumbledore refused him, he could almost see the object slipping further and further away out of his grasp. The Sword would be his. Dumbledore would never find someone to fulfil this position, Voldemort would guarantee it, and then there would be no choice but to come crawling back to Tom for help. Tom would request the Sword as payment, and then, only when the Sword was his, would he lift his Curse. 

He spoke the words of the Curse, eyes narrowed on Dumbledore’s expressionless face as he vowed that no one would be able to keep the position for more than a year. Dumbledore listened silently, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, and he sighed as Tom fell silent. 

“I will take my leave now,” Tom whispered, a moment later, as he pushed the chair back from the desk and stood. Dumbledore watched him go, fully aware of how Tom’s eyes had bled to red as he spoke his Curse. He knew Tom would cause trouble, he had always been destined to be a great power and to do great things. But there was a fine line between great and terrible. 

Tom disappeared from England once again. When he reappeared in 1970, Dumbledore learnt that great and terrible could go hand-in-hand. 

_XXX_

December 24th 1997. 

It had all happened so fast, and Harry couldn’t quite remember how he had gotten to where he was. One moment, he had been crying over his parents’ graves, mentally repeating the inscription on the stone over and over again, telling himself that ‘the last enemy to be destroyed is **not** death’, but Voldemort, and the next he and Hermione were being led into the house next door, Bathilda Bagshot’s arm linked with his own. The house had been smelly and dirty, but both of the teenagers had passed it off as being due to the fact that the woman was old, and there was no one to take care of her or the house. She had served them tea, shuffling about the room awkwardly, and the smell had been terrible when she bent down over them to pour from the kettle. 

“Come upstairs with me, Harry,” she croaked, beckoning him forward. “I have something to give you. I have it hidden upstairs, where they wouldn’t look for it.” 

Harry and Hermione traded looks with one another. The Muggleborn was frowning lightly, but then her eyes widened and she mouthed the word “sword” at Harry. The thought that his sword might be in that very house, so close to him, was enough for Harry to ignore the lingering suspicion he felt. He had happily followed Bathilda upstairs, and that was the last thing he could actively remember doing before he was suddenly under attack. 

Nagini had launched herself towards him. Taken by surprise, Harry had fallen to the floor, Nagini coiled tightly around the length of his body. Strangely, the giant cobra hadn’t attacked him yet; instead her tongue kept flicking in and out of her mouth, scenting him. 

“Get off; get off,” Harry muttered. “HERMIONE!” He screamed, as Nagini tightened her hold on him. His scar began to throb, the skin around the scar felt like it was on fire, and Harry’s arms were pinned to his sides so he couldn’t even press his palm to the wound in comfort. “ **Get off of me!** ” He hissed in Parseltongue. 

“ **Anathema. You smell like Master’s mate. I am not sure if you are Harry Potter.** ” The snake said, her tongue running down the length of Harry’s face. 

“ **I’m not, I’m not Harry, I swear** ,” the Wizard said, lying through his teeth. 

“ **We shall let Master determine who you are**.” 

Voldemort was on his way. Harry could see him, when he allowed his eyes to close, gliding towards them with his wand outstretched. Harry knew they had to be gone before the Dark Lord arrived. 

Around his neck, the Locket seemed to tremble. Harry swore he could almost feel the excitement rolling off of the object in tidal waves, and it made him sick to realise something that he so treasured could be pleased by the arrival of Lord Voldemort. Harry cringed as Hermione ran into the room. The snake hissed loudly before she was _Stupefied_ , and Harry waited a moment before he wriggled his way free from between her heavy coils. 

“We have to go, he’s coming! We have to go now!” He urged Hermione towards the stairs, one hand on his wand, and his head turned sideways so he could watch Nagini out of the corner of his eyes. 

“It’s too late!” Hermione gasped. 

Framed in the doorway of Bathilda’s house was Lord Voldemort. A smirk curved up his lipless mouth and he twirled his wand lazily between the fingers of his right hand, chuckling lowly as the two teenagers tried to flee back up the stairs. 

“ _Reducto_!” The area where the stairs met the upper landing exploded in a shower of wood and plaster. 

Hermione screamed as she fell forward, landing in a heap at Voldemort’s feet. Harry grabbed hold of the banister, managing to keep his footing, and straightened himself to face the man who had murdered his parents. 

“ **You won’t win, Tom** ,” Harry said with a fierce glare, unintentionally slipping into the snaketongue. He had dropped his wand moments ago, and he could see it lying broken and harmless beside his friend. 

From the top of the stairs, more hissing followed. The spell cast on Nagini had worn off, and she slithered out onto what was left of the landing to shout down to her master. “ **He smells like Master’s mate. Are you sure he is Harry Potter?** ” 

Voldemort’s eyes went wide, the red iris flashing with surprise, and Harry likened the look on his face to how Tom Riddle had looked when Ana had first whispered ‘I love you’. The man’s wand arm lowered, the magic stick hanging limply between his fingers, and Hermione was quick to whip her wand out and scream, “ _Impedimenta_!” Voldemort was thrown sideways by the curse, and his head hit the wall accompanied by a loud crack. As he lay dazed, Hermione jumped to her feet, gathered the pieces of Harry’s broken wand and ran from the house. “Come ON, Harry!” She called over her shoulder. 

He stared at Voldemort for a moment, imagining Tom in his place. How would things have been different if the Horcruxes had not been made and if Anathema had not been killed, Harry wondered. He probably wouldn’t be alive, if Ana had never died. There would be no prophecy, and his parents would still be alive as well. 

“COME ON!” Hermione screeched, and Harry startled visibly. He shook his head, frowning as Voldemort glared over at him and began to rise, and then he ran. He ran faster than he could ever remember running before, and he grabbed hold of Hermione’s arm as he passed her, and dragged her along with him. She tripped and stumbled a few times, but Harry kept pulling. He didn’t slow down until they were well out of sight of Godric’s Hollow. 

Voldemort watched them leave, his head tilted to one side. Without looking, he levitated Nagini down the ruined stairs, and laid her gently at his feet. 

“ **He smells of Ana- of him, you say. Are you certain, my pet?** ” Voldemort glanced briefly down at the snake. Her scales were almost the same colour as his dead lover’s eyes, and whenever the sun glanced off of Nagini’s head, he couldn’t help but think of how beautiful Anathema’s eyes had been. How similar they were to the eyes of Harry Potter. 

“ **Exactly as you described him, Master. He smells like the other half of you**.”

“ **Could it be possible that you are scenting something else within him**?” The question was soft and calmly delivered, but Voldemort’s thoughts were in turmoil. Reincarnation was not an unheard of experience. Could Potter really be his Ana? After all of this time, all of his actions, Fate was now choosing to throw his lover back in his face in such a manner? As the one person Voldemort was destined to kill! But perhaps there was another explanation. There might be some other way to explain the fascination Nagini found with Potter, another reasonable excuse: his use of Parseltongue for example. Nagini would wish to spare a fellow speaker of their language, and she would rightly deem a Speaker as a suitable mate for her Master. In any other circumstance he might consider it, but not Potter. 

Never a Gryffindor.

“ **His scent is a little bit like my own, and the ring you used to wear. The one that belonged to your mate, Master. But he also smells like you, more like you than like me. Are you sure he is Harry Potter?** ” Nagini looked up at him, and Voldemort glanced at her once before staring into the distance again, as if seeking Harry’s current location. 

Harry smelt like a fellow Horcrux?

“How… interesting,” Voldemort drawled, his mouth pulling up into a parody of a grin. “How very interesting.”

 _XXX_

July 31st 1930. 

Emily Jones had once been considered an extremely beautiful young woman. She had fair skin, and long dark hair that fell in waves and curls to her shoulder blades, with a slim but tall frame and a pleasant face there were always men who sought to court her. But that was before a group of ‘protesting’ Dark Wizards raided her hometown. They came in the name of someone called Grindelwald, they came to purge the world of Muggles and Mudbloods, but none of that mattered to Emily. Her family hadn’t known what those words meant, and they tried to ignore the screams that echoed up and down their road. 

It had been a good neighbourhood once, but when the protestors left most of the houses were on fire, and bodies lined the streets. Emily was one of five young girls who had been forced to perform sexual acts on the raiders; to lie back and take it, as they were taken against their wills. But she was the only one who was unfortunate enough to have to live with the evidence of the unpunished crimes committed against her. 

Her tired eyes crinkled as she smiled at her three-year-old son, her drawn, pale face obscured by creamy make-up. Jason was a good boy, but he looked so much like the man who raped her that it sometimes hurt to look at him. She loved him, completely, and she would never have considered ridding herself of him, but that didn’t change the fact that sometimes she flinched if he came at her without warning. 

“Happy birthday, Jason,” she cried. Emily held her arms out, and the boy giggled loudly as he ran towards her. She had thrown him a birthday party, just the two of them because her parents had gone away for the weekend and she didn’t want to be alone in the house with any other adult. There was a large cake on the counter top; she had baked it herself. Jason eyed the cake, his emerald green eyes wide and hungry as his gaze travelled over the layers of chocolate icing and cream. 

“Love you,” the boy gurgled, reaching up so his mother could sweep him into her arms. “Happy birthday Mummy!” He cried, clapping his hands excitedly in her face. 

She smiled sadly at him, “No, baby, this is your birthday. Mummy’s birthday was nine months ago, remember? We had another cake.” Emily had also had nightmares, and panic attacks, and the terror of not knowing whether that _man_ would be back this year, or the year before that, or the year before that, to take her or her baby away. Ever since that day she had hated birthday parties, but it would be unfair to deprive her innocent son of the long-standing tradition. “Shall we cut the cake?”

“Yeah!” He cried. 

“We’ll have to save some for Grandma and Grandpa, of course. Don’t you think?” Emily carried him towards the kitchen, before seating him on the counter as she searched for a breadknife. “It’s only fair.”

There was a soft clicking noise, and Emily’s head snapped up, fear plastered across her face. But then she saw Jason rattling her car keys, and she relaxed. 

“Don’t we get cake?” A voice drawled from behind her. She span around, knife clutched to her chest as she stared at the eighteen-year-old invader to her kitchen. Her back was turned to her son, and while she wasn’t looking an older man noiselessly stepped towards the child and plucked him from the counter top. 

“It’s only fair that the boy’s father gets cake on his son’s birthday, don’t you think, Muggle?” Emily heart gave a horrible lurch as she heard the second man speak. She turned slowly to face him, the knife outstretched towards her attacker as she mentally relieved every derogatory thing he had whispered in her ear the day he forced himself upon her. 

“Get away from my son,” she said, her voice and knife trembling with fear. “Leave us alone.”

“What is his name?” Arcturus Black asked, with a scowl on his lips. “Jason, was it? Horrible name for a Son of the House of Black, don’t you think Pollux?” The younger cousin nodded his head silently, his wand pressing into the base of Emily’s spine. “I think I’ll change it.” Arcturus smirked, a slow and horrible rise of his mouth, and Emily’s breath came faster as green light enveloped her from behind. “Anathema Mallory Black, it is time to come home.”

Home, it turned out, was Number 12 Grimmauld Place in London. Anathema looked around with teary green eyes. The house was well kept and tidy, but there was hardly any light. The use of candles instead of electricity gave the rooms a dim and overcast feeling, smothering the occupants in shadows and grey light. 

As Anathema was introduced to his new family, (his new mother Melania McMillian, who was Arcturus’ wife and his sister Lucretia, older by two years, and his brother Orion, who was two years younger and only a baby) the child couldn’t help but wish to go home to his real mother. 

“I want mummy,” he whined, tears pooling in his eyes as he clenched his fists and prepared for a good temper tantrum. Instead of being allowed to cry and scream until he got his way, as Emily had previously allowed him to do (too afraid to argue with a younger reflection of her rapist), Anathema was stopped in his tracks. 

Arcturus’ wand was pointed at the child’s chest, and the three year old did scream and cry, and convulse, but in pain, as the man whispered, “ _Crucio_!” and thought of his hate for the Muggle taint in the child’s blood. The boy would learn, he would have to learn, that he was a Pureblood now. There would be no more Muggle mothers, and Muggle tantrums, and Muggle-approved ill-mannered demands from a child of the House of Black. 

“This is your family now.” Melania hissed at him, Orion cradled in her arms, and she easily ignored the way he curled into the foetal position and continued to cry and shake. “I am your mother now.”

For Anathema, there was no going back. Like it or not, he was home. 

**XXX**


	6. Chapter 06

**Words:** 5,496  
 **Chapter 6**  
December 26th 1997. 

Severus Snape watched him sleeping. 

From where he was hidden behind some closely grouped trees, Severus didn’t have a very good angle on Harry. But he still noticed every time Harry jumped awake, searching the Forest of Dean with frantic eyes, before drifting back to sleep while leaning awkwardly against the outside of the tent. 

As much as Severus desired to take the boy, to protect him from his own destiny, and run somewhere far away where nothing more would matter than the fact that he was who he was and Harry was _Lily’s_ child, he couldn’t. This was Harry’s destiny. No matter how horrible that destiny would be, how terrible the morning it dawned, Harry needed to do this. And Severus couldn’t stand in his way. Though he would help: he had promised to help. 

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” he whispered. From the tip of his wand, a bright light appeared, snaking outwards until it hovered just at the edge of the clearing where Harry’s tent was pitched. By the time Harry Potter jolted awake again, the light had become a fully corporeal silver doe. 

The moment Harry’s eyes focused on the doe, he climbed to his feet. Sleep fell away from him easily. He was well practised at waking up at a moments notice! As Harry walked towards the doe, Severus slashed his wand towards himself, and the Patronus turned and trotted back into the trees. 

“Stop! Don’t go!” Harry called out, beginning to move after the deer. 

Harry didn’t think to wake Hermione. Instead he ran into the forest alone, and Severus in good conscience couldn’t let him. Silently, the Potions Master followed him, always a few steps behind and unnoticed. The Patronus stopped every now and then, turning her head to look back at Harry and she pounded the earth with her front hoof as if urging him to follow faster, before she began to walk away again. 

Severus wasn’t sure if Harry even considered that this might be a trap. Perhaps the thought had occurred to the boy, and that was why Granger was left behind, but whatever Harry thought was happening he didn’t hesitate to run towards her as she began to fade away. 

1“ _Lumos_!” Harry whispered fearfully. With the Patronus there, he had felt safe. But she was gone now. 

Severus watched him turn in circles, his wand held out protectively as he tried to figure out where he was. His free hand clutched tightly to something gold around his throat, and Severus strained his eyes to try and glimpse what was so precious to Harry. Another glint of gold, sparkling as the light from Harry’s wand reflected off of it, caught Snape’s attention completely. He took a step forward, his wand out and ready. He knew that Locket! His Lord had been searching for it for sometime, and Delores Umbridge had reported a similar one stolen… but could they possibly be the same one? The one Harry was wearing and holding reverently, no less. 

Was he possessed, like Ginny Weasley had been by the diary? Severus’ breath caught at the thought. He had failed to protect Lily’s child if that were the case. But no, no, he would have gone to the Dark Lord if he were possessed. He would not have remained with a Muggleborn With if he were possessed. 

But then why? 

Severus could not understand why Harry would feel safe with the Locket around his throat. Just touching it had visibly calmed the boy down, and he had even lowered his wand slightly, distracted by the glint of Gryffindor’s Sword within the pool of frozen water where Severus had hidden it earlier. 

For a horrible moment Severus feared that Harry would not destroy that particular Horcrux. The possibility of that was maddening. His breath lodged in his throat, but he fought to swallow and breathe normally. Harry would do what his destiny would make him. He had a path to follow and he would destroy the Horcruxes before he died. Severus didn’t want to see if he would be wrong, and instead of staying to watch the death of a piece of Voldemort’s soul (assuming Albus was wrong and the soul didn’t just merge with Voldemort’s) as he had originally planned – Severus Snape fled. 

Harry heard something rustling in the bushes, but he ignored it. He was focused on the Sword now. Nothing else mattered. 

“ _Accio_ Sword,” he said, but nothing happened. Hermione would probably know what to do, but she was still sleeping. Harry bit his bottom lip, trying to decide how he was expected to get to the Sword. He didn’t contemplate why the Sword was even there: that would be Hermione’s job come morning. He wanted and needed Gryffindor’s sword, and he would have to prove himself worthy to wield it once again. 

Hadn’t Dumbledore told him that when he was twelve? “Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the Hat.” Albus’ voice echoed through Harry’s head, and suddenly he knew what he had to do. He needed to be brave and courageous and daring. He would need to go down to the bottom of the frozen lake and pluck out the Sword from its inky depths himself. He needed to be a Gryffindor—

But he wasn’t, not really, was he? The Hat had wanted to place him in Slytherin. He wore Slytherin’s Locket comfortably around his own neck, as if it were an extension of his own soul! How could he even imagine that the Sword would want him? 

“I want it,” he whispered to himself. Harry was almost shaken by the conviction he could hear in his own voice, and he stared down at the Sword in much the same way as Voldemort had once eyed it, as it hung beside Dumbledore’s head in Hogwarts. “It belongs to me.” He whispered. Without even considering how important the Locket had once been to him, Harry pulled it from around his neck and let it fall to the ground. The moment it touched the earth, Harry’s borrowed wand was pointed at the surface of the lake. 

“ _Diffindo_.” With that one word, the surface of the lake rippled and fissures spread across it like a spiders web, interweaving and over lapping until eventually chunks of the ice simply sank into the water and out of Harry’s way. 

He jumped in. The coldness of the water hit him like a ton of bricks and he exhaled sharply, forgetting to breathe again as he toppled beneath the surface. He kept falling, letting gravity do its job, all the while trying to stop himself from breathing in the icy water. 

His hand closed around the hilt of the Sword, and he smiled brightly to himself, kicking his feet furiously as he tried to rise back up. It was harder to swim upwards than it had been to simply fall down, but Harry struggled on. Just as he thought he wouldn’t be able to, his legs tired and his shoulder burning from the strain of dragging the Sword behind him, arms wrapped around his waist and tugged. 

“Tom?” Harry whispered, forgetting himself. Water rushed into his mouth, and when he tried to spit it out he ended up choking on more water. His head broke the surface, and Harry coughed and sputtered, turning his head away from his rescuer as he spat up as much of the water as he could. “Ron?” He asked, surprised, when he turned his head back and met furious blue eyes. 

Ron silently dragged him to the edge of the lake and Hermione, who was hovering nervous, helped to drag him out of the water. 

As she cast drying charms, Ron started to rant. “What the hell did you think you were doing? Going off on your own! Leaving the Horcrux here! Jumping, jumping, into a bloody frozen lake! Frozen! You could have died if I hadn’t come along!” 

“It was you?” Harry asked, somewhat dissatisfied. He had to admit that he had missed his friend, but the idea that it was Ron shadowing him, Ron who had hidden the Sword instead of just handing it over amiably, instead of some mythical stranger (whom his subconscious-half-drowned voice had named Tom) was disappointing. 

“Of course it was me,” Ron said, looking at Harry as if that one moment without oxygen had somehow permanently damaged Harry’s brain.

“You cast the Patronus?” 

“No of course not! I thought you were doing it!” Harry gave the mandatory response, defending his Patronus’ masculinity. But all the while he was grinning inside. Ron hadn’t led them here. Someone else was behind this and Harry desperately wanted to know whom. He didn’t think he would like the answer, but he thought it would be a more satisfactory answer than Ron being the one behind it all! 

The pouch Hagrid had given him was around his neck still, and Harry reached up to open it. He picked the Locket up from the floor and was about to slip it in, the Sword clenched between his thighs so that no one else could take it from him when his hands were occupied. Hermione reached out and snatched the Locket from Harry’s hand. 

“We need to destroy it now.” Hermione took her wand back from him, pointing it around them, searching for a place to do the deed. 

“Do you think it’s the real deal?” Ron asked, following her over to a flat rock lying in the shadow of a sycamore tree. 

“Only one way to find out,” Hermione said softly, laying the Locket down. “Harry, give Ron the Sword. I think he should do it, don’t you?”

“Me?” Ron gasped. As Hermione tried to convince him, neither of them noticed Harry very much. 

Harry was staring at the Locket, his green eyes wide and panicked. His knuckled were white, his fingers clenched tightly around the hilt of the Sword and he hugged it against his chest protectively. He wasn’t about to let anyone take his sword from him. Not now, not after fifty years of waiting for it. He had always thought it was beautiful, and he had always thought it would suit Tom’s soul, and then later his own, but they had never gotten around to it. Not until now. Harry cut himself against the Sword, but he paid no attention to the stinging in his fingers. All that mattered was the Sword… and the Horcrux. 

Earlier, the Locket had meant nothing to him. Everything had been about the Sword. But suddenly Harry was overwhelmed with a fear that wasn’t his own, a nagging, begging feeling that demanded he protect Tom’s soul. The Horcrux called to him, and his scar burned, but Harry found himself walking calmly towards the rock, preparing himself to attack his friends and steal the Locket away once more. 

“What do you think Harry?” Hermione asked, referring still to this being Ron’s chance to shine. 

Harry, however, misunderstood the question. “I think it would make a fine Horcrux, the Sword I mean.” 

Hermione gasped, taking a step away from the Locket and raising her wand slightly. “Open the Locket, Harry, and don’t come any closer. It’s affecting you badly now, the way it used to hurt Ron. You know we need to do this, we talked about this, Harry.” She frowned when he didn’t react. “Give Ron the Sword and open the Locket.”

“ **Open** ,” he commanded the Horcrux, and the two faces of the Locket snapped away from one another. Out of the object, a black mist rose until it took the form of Tom Riddle. 

The shadowy figure stared at Harry for a moment, ignoring the other two children completely. “Don’t let them kill me, Ana! I love you,” the Riddle lied. 

It morphed then. It smirked at Harry’s flinched, changing shape until it looked like Anathema. The Riddle-Anathema looked so very much like Harry that he couldn’t help but flinch again. “I loved you. Why would you want to kill me, Harry? We’re having a baby.” Riddle-Anathema’s hands moved to cup his abdomen, and before their eyes, the stomach began to grow until the apparition looked to be a good few months pregnant. 

Suddenly a Riddle-Harry was looking back at them. It turned to face Ron, pointing back over his shoulder at the real Harry, and hissed, “He is going to kill you! Can’t you tell that he is Voldemort? I’m the _real_ Harry Potter!” 

“I’m Harry Potter,” Harry whispered. He could remember lying to Nagini, saying he wasn’t over and over again, and how she hadn’t believed him. For a horrible moment, when Ron charged towards him and wrestled Gryffindor’s Sword from his bloody hands, Harry thought his friends hadn’t believed him either. 

Harry fell to the snow, one arm raised as if to protect himself, but Ron never attacked. Instead the redhead whirled around, ignoring the insults the now Riddle-Hermione was throwing at him, and plunged the Sword straight through the centre of the Locket. 

Tom Riddle flailed and screamed, and Harry’s voice echoed his cries. In his head, he could hear crying, and wailing, and bright green light was flashing. When Harry finally stopped screaming, Ron and Hermione were crouched over him, watching him warily, and Tom was gone. 

The Horcrux was gone. It had probably joined with Voldemort’s body, remerging the man’s soul until he was human once more. Until it would be possible to kill him. 

Harry crawled across the snow, too weak to stand. His bloody fingers clenched around what remained of the Locket and he tucked it silently into the pouch hanging around his neck. He didn’t dare look at the Sword once on their way back to the tent. As Hermione healed his hands, they didn’t talk about what had happened at all. But Harry could feel two sets of eyes on him, the silence was awkward and tense, and more than anything he wanted to run outside with the Locket and the Sword and be _alone_. 

_XXX_

December 28th 1997. 

Hermione was still angry with Ron over his abandonment of them, and of her especially. In the Forest of Dean, they had overcome their issues, pushing them aside in favour of the fact that Hermione had woken up without a wand, and Ron had been following a suspicious Patronus to a half-drowned Harry. Harry’s well being was more important than Hermione’s hurt pride. But now that Harry was safe, now that he had finally stopped hiding away from their tent and the Sword within it and started acting like a normal person again, Hermione figured it was about time she was allowed to show the extent of her anger. 

Ron had been lucky she had only hit him with a handful of minor hexes. Hermione didn’t want to risk permanently injuring him, when there was no chance of getting to St Mungos any time soon. 

Hermione hadn’t spoken a word to Ron in two days. She chose, instead, to send him filthy looks at every possible moment, and address Harry, asking him to ask Ron something on her behalf. It was petty and childish, but Harry let it be. It wasn’t really his business. It wasn’t his girlfriend who had been left behind (though maybe he should keep a close watch on how Ron would get Hermione to forgive him… since he might need to employ the same tactics on Ginny after the war). 

So far Ron’s only reaction to Hermione’s silent treatment was to maintain a sombre demeanour. When all three of them were together, Harry felt as if they were mourners at a funeral, except that only he wasn’t mourning. When Ron and Harry were alone, Ron was exceptionally cheery, on the other hand, and when the two of them wondered off alone together Harry finally managed to explain everything that had happened while Ron was gone. 

“How did you find out about the Taboo?” Ron asked curiously. Harry just frowned at him, not sure what he meant. “You and Hermione have stopped saying You-Know-Who’s name.”

“Oh,” Harry sighed. Originally it had been Ron’s idea not to use the name, back before the argument between the two boys had driven them apart. Ron had wanted to show Voldemort some respect! “It’s just a bad habit we’ve slipped into. I haven’t a problem calling him V-” Ron hissed, shushing Harry before he could finish the word. 

“NO!” Ron shouted, loudly enough to draw Hermione’s attention away from the book she was reading. “The name’s been jinxed. Using His name breaks protective enchantments; it causes some kind of magical disturbance. That’s how they found us in Tottenham Court Road.” 

“Because we used His name?” Harry asked sceptically. 

“You have to give him credit,” Ron mused, a slow smile spreading across his face, “it’s only those who are serious against standing up to him that would dare use His name. They nearly got Kingsley, you know.” 

“He’s ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, Bill said he fought his way out. But he’s on the run now. I was thinking maybe Kingsley could have sent the Patronus. But his form is a Lynx isn’t it?” Ron gave a half-shrug, trailing off into silence. 

Harry twirled the Blackthorn wand that Ron had taken from a group of Snatchers, and given to him. It was better than nothing, but it wouldn’t ever measure up to his old wand, or even Hermione’s one. They talked about Dumbledore for a time, until they decided it would be best to head back to Hermione. To begin with, they had only wondered around the camp, but now they had somehow ended up further into the trees, and no matter how angry Hermione was she would still worry. 

Hermione turned her head to look at them, and just as quickly, turned it away again. “I want to see Xenophilius Lovegood.” She said suddenly, putting down her copy of ‘The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore’. “It’s the mark from _Beedle the Bard_ ,” she told them, pointing to the bottom of the page where Dumbledore had signed his name, but replaced the ‘A’ with a miniature of the Deathly Hallows. “It just keeps cropping up everywhere. Viktor thought it was Grindelwald’s mark, it was definitely on that old gravestone in Godric’s Hollow and the dates on the gravestone was from before Grindelwald came along! And now this? We can’t ask Grindelwald or Dumbledore, but Mr. Lovegood was wearing the symbol at the wedding.” 

Harry hadn’t wanted to go, but Ron and Hermione had outvoted them. Maybe that was the key to gaining slighted girlfriends’ forgiveness? Always take their side in an argument: Harry vowed to keep it in mind. Ron and Hermione were on speaking terms again as they headed back to Ottery St. Catchpole, and over the hill where Mrs. Weasley had always pointed whenever she spoke about the Lovegoods. 

It was Christmas break, and Harry was looking forward to seeing Luna when they arrived. He had missed his friend, and her quirky ways. It was a few hours of walking later when they stumbled upon a house that looked like a giant chess rook. It could belong to no one else but the Lovegoods, they decided, and after Ron noticed a sign fixed to a broken down gate declaring the owners of the house, Harry decided to knock. 

“What is it? Who are you? What do you want?” A voice asked about ten seconds later when the door opened just a crack. The man’s eyes landed on Harry’s face, and his mouth opened wide. As the eyes slid further up Harry’s forehead, until they rested on the scar, the door opened a little too and Mr. Lovegood stood framed in the threshold watching the group with awe. 

“Would it be ok if we came in for a while, Mr. Lovegood?” Harry asked. 

“I-I’m not sure that would be advisable,” Xeno said, casting wary looks around the garden, narrowing his eyes at the shadows behind the children.

“It won’t take long.” 

“Oh, all right then!” Xeno agreed, after hearing the disappointment in Harry’s tone. “But quickly, _quickly_!” He ushered them inside and slammed the door shut, casting a number of locking charms on it as well. 

He led them through a strange, cluttered looking kitchen that could have been decorated by Luna herself, up a spiralling staircase that was situated in the middle of the floor and went up and up. The second floor was a mix between a sitting room and a work room, and was much more cluttered than downstairs had been, but Xenophilius ignored the mess and took a seat on one of the couches. 

“Why have you come here?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. 

An Erumpent Horn that was hung on the wall behind Xenophilius, however, stole Hermione’s attention. As the two argued over whether or not it was the horn from a Crumple-Horned Snorkack or from an Erumpent, Harry made his way towards a bookcase that was against the opposite wall. The mark they had come to ask about was right there, engraved onto the spine of the book and Harry slid it from the shelf and turned it over. 

_The Tale of the Three Brothers_ , the cover read. It sounded very familiar to Harry, though he knew he himself had not read it, he wondered if he had in his past life? 

“What’s this story about?” Harry asked, turning around to find that Xenophilius was gone. 

“He’s gone to call Luna.” Ron told him. “Cowardly old snot.”

“He’s probably afraid of what the Death Eaters will do if they find out he helped us.” Hermione said, trying to pacify Ron by taping him lightly on the arm. “And get away from that Horn!” Hermione scolded as Harry walked towards it. 

“I’m not going to touch it,” he promised. In fact, his interest was on the stone statue beside it. The statue was of a woman, and on her head she was wearing the most bizarre looking headdress. “What is it?” Harry asked, reaching out to stroke the face of the statue. 

“Ah, I see you have spotted my latest invention,” Xeno said, appearing back in the room with Wellington boots on and carrying a tray of tea. “Modelled upon the head of the beautiful Rowena Ravenclaw. Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure.” 

Harry’s mouth moved in time with Xeno’s, mumbling the words to Rowena’s famous quote. Perhaps he had heard Hermione saying it before, during a lecture about the importance of studying? Or maybe Tom had told Anathema while searching for a worthy Horcrux? Either way, an item of Ravenclaw’s would be something to keep an eye out for. 

“Now,” Mr. Lovegood asked after he had poured them all a drink, “how may I help you, Mr Potter?”

“It’s about the symbol you were wearing at Bill Weasley’s wedding.” Hermione told him, taking the book from Harry’s hand and showing it to Xenophilius. _The Tale of the Three Brothers_ was a children’s story, and Hermione knew it was within _Beedle the Bard_ ’s book, but she just hadn’t gotten around to reading it yet. “Could you tell us what it means?”

“Are you referring to the symbol of the Deathly Hallows?” He asked, a small smile on his face. 

Ron and Hermione looked confused, but Harry felt a fleeting moment of understand dawn within him. No wonder Voldemort kept using other people’s wands! He was looking for **that** wand in particular, the Elder Wand, the master of which would never die. Harry’s hands clenched at his side, and he fought not to scowl. If Horcruxes weren’t enough for Tom Riddle, now he wanted to take what had rightfully been claimed by Harry- Ana. By Ana, he mentally corrected himself. 

“ _There were once three brothers_ ,” Hermione was saying, reading from the copy of ‘The Three Brothers’. “ _Who were travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight. In time, the brothers reached a river too deep to wade through and too dangerous to swim across. However, these brothers were learned in the magical arts, and so they simply waved their wands and made a bridge appear across the treacherous water. They were halfway across it when they found their path blocked by a hooded figure_.” 

Harry interrupted her, “ _and Death spoke to them_.” 2

“I thought you didn’t know the story, Harry?” Ron asked, confused. 

“I don’t. I don’t think I do anyway.” He gave a shrug, and waved for Hermione to continue. 

She continued to speak, and in all of the right places, without being prompted Harry intervened with, “ _And so death took the first brother for his own_ ,” or “ _And so death took the second brother for his own_ ,” and as Hermione finished the story, explaining that Death could not take the third brother until he had removed the Invisibility Cloak himself, Harry frowned over at his friend and said, “Those are the Deathly Hallows.” 

And he had two of them. 

_XXX_

October 12th 1940. 

Tom Riddle watched him. He had seen Anathema before, in passing, and he had spoken to the boy once though it had not been a pleasant meeting, less than what Tom would have hoped for. It hadn’t helped that Lucretia Black had been there, sticking her nose in and riling Anathema up. This time, though, they were alone in the Slytherin Common Room, and Anathema had yet to notice him. 

“What are you reading?” Tom asked, pausing beside Ana’s chair. He had his hands clasped behind his back, and the 3rd year looked down on the younger boy with curiosity. 

“What do you care?” Anathema asked snidely. He must have been one of the only children in the school (no matter what year) that didn’t treat Tom well, and certainly he was the only Slytherin to do so! “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Ana glanced down, green eyes roving along Tom’s shinny black shoes, “your boots look like they could do with a nice licking, the shine is starting to fade.” 

He went back to his book, slowly making notes along the margins with a white-feathered quill. Tom watched, a smirk spreading across his face, and just like the last time they met he wasn’t angered by Anathema’s behaviour. Instead, the boy sparked his interest, made him curious and amused in equal parts. And disregarding the fact that the child was only twelve, Anathema aroused him also. 

Anathema’s clothes were richer than Tom’s, but in a much worse condition. The child didn’t seem to care that ink was dripping onto his shirt and staining it, or that there was mud and scratches on his shoes. Tom waved his wand, and all of it disappeared. He offered Ana a smile, tucked his wand away and raised an eyebrow. 

“Are you waiting for me to thank you? Because you’ll be waiting a long while.” 

Tom snorted lightly, seating himself delicately on the arm of Anathema’s chair. “You really aren’t afraid of me, are you?”

“I live with Arcturus Black. Why should I fear you?” Anathema’s eyes flashed in anger, the green of them brightening until Tom was almost mesmerised by the colour. 

He couldn’t look away, and he licked his lips, still staring, as he mumbled, “your father?”

“That man is not my father!” The child spat, disgust marring his pretty face. Tom felt elation well up within him. So, not only was the boy something that drew and held his attention, but now they had something in common too. “What do you want?” Ana asked softly, after he had calmed down. The book was closed on his lap, and on its front cover was the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. 

“That’s Grindelwald’s mark,” Tom told him softly. “You should be careful who sees you with that.” 

Every since the war really started the year before, students were afraid to announce their loyalties the way the had the year Tom first started school. Supporters of the Dark Lord were often suspended and sent home from Hogwarts. In times like these, times that were only going to get worse before the end, no one really complained anymore. 

“That isn’t Grindelwald’s mark!” Anathema rolled his eyes, clutching the book tighter to his chest. “And anyway, Professor Dumbledore gave me this book.” It was _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ , the original copy, that would one day belong to Hermione Granger. “I’m going to give it back of course, it’s worth a lot of money and I don’t want to steal it from him, but it was very nice of the professor to lend it to me. He knows I am interested in the Quest, though he had tried to dissuade me. I suppose he feels it is dangerous, and it probably is. But I am going to master the Deathly Hallows one day, you know?” 

Anathema spoke with such conviction that Tom automatically believed him. Though he could not help himself from asking, “what are the Deathly Hallows?” 

“You don’t know?” Tom gritted his teeth and his jaw clenched, and Ana was clever enough not to wait for an answer once he noticed this. “Have you heard of the Three Brothers? Their names were Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus Peverell, and they encountered Death on their travels. Instead of dying, they used magic to circumvent the river that was meant to drown them and then they made a deal with Death to prolong their lives. Antioch asked for a wand with which to defeat all others. A wand worthy of one who had conquered Death, and Death fashioned for him the Elder Wand. The second brother wished to recall the dead back to life, to humiliate Death and undermine him, and he was given the Resurrection Stone, though it does not work in the way which Cadmus had hoped it would.”

Tom raised an eyebrow at him, and chuckled. “This is a children’s story, Anathema. It is fantasy.”

The younger boy acted as if Tom had never spoken, and continued. “The third brother, Ignotus, is my favourite. He was far cleverer than his brothers, and he asked for something that would enable him to leave that place without Death following him. Unwillingly, Death gave him his very own Invisibility Cloak, and while he found both elder brothers and took their souls, he was never able to find Ignotus, until Ignotus himself took off the Cloak and gave it to his son. _And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this life_.” Anathema read the last line from his book, showing the open page to Tom and his own drawings of what he thought each item might look like. 

“They aren’t real,” Tom repeated. 

Ana’s hand went to his throat, where he played with a necklace and its charm that was shaped as a triangle, with a circle within it and a line through that. The charm warmed in his hand and Anathema stroked it lightly, lovingly, and he smiled sadly at Tom Riddle. “I don’t care what you think, Riddle. And I don’t care if no one believes me, but I know they are real. Charlus Potter owns the Cloak of Invisibility, did you know? I asked to study it before he graduated last year, and it’s amazing. Far better than the ones you can buy, and his was handed down through his family. He told me he even had a relative named Ignotus.”

“And you believed him?” Tom scoffed, reaching out with one hand to grip Anathema’s chin and turn his face towards Tom’s. “So why did you not steal the cloak from him and hide beneath it from Death?” 

“I do not want to hide. I want Death to find me and this war to come to Britain.” Tom’s eyes widened, unsure why Anathema would want such a thing. Without needing to be asked, Ana told him. 3“Lord Grindelwald has the Elder Wand. Or at least he did have it once, and when he comes to Britain I will be the one to master it. I want the Wand before I collect the other two. The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny: it is an _unbeatable_ wand, Riddle. And I want it.”

Tom smiled, moving from his position on the edge of Ana’s seat. “No doubt, you shall have it.” He whispered the words in Anathema’s ear, taking in the pleasant smell that surrounded the boy as he ran his hand possessively through his hair. “Good luck with that,” he said as he pulled away. 

With that, he left the Common Room. Anathema watched him go, his eyes narrowed and his hands clenched tightly around the spine of his book. The Hallows would be _his_! If Tom Riddle even dared to try and claim them for himself, Anathema would make him sorry. 

He clenched his teeth. Then went back to reading. 

**XXX**

Let me know what you think :)


	7. Chapter 07

Thank you to YumeNoTsuzuki, for reviewing, and reminding me that I really need to update this :) Here's two chapters to make up for the wait.   
It's unbeta'd, because the beta'd version is missing the HTML. Sorry!

 

 **Words:** 5,528  
 **Chapter 7**  
December 31st 1942.

The snow was falling thickly outside. Anathema watched with hooded eyes as the flakes landed all around him. He lay spread eagle, arms and legs stretched out on a bed of pure white, smiling softly to himself as snow melted on his face. Hogwarts was always beautiful at Yule-time, and usually abandoned too. Only a handful of Professors and students had remained behind, and as per Anathema was one of them. 

“You’ll catch cold,” Tom warned him. He was leaning with his back against a tree that boarded the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He was mostly sheltered from the falling snow and a couple of wards protected him completely. He had sent a warming charm at Ana a minute ago, but the boy had only laughed and started making snow angels. 

“I’ll get a Pepper-Up Potion.” The green eyed boy smiled widely, flapping his arms in the snow. Ana carefully stood up, wary of smudging the snow angel out of existence, and he turned wide eyes onto the indentation and grinned. “Look what I did!” 

“What you have accomplished, Ana, is nothing more than a worthless waste of time that will disappear under fresh snowfall or our feet, and you have likely gotten yourself ill for no reason.” Tom chided him, arms folded across his chest. His dark blue robe made him look almost as pale as the snow, but his blue eyes were almost black in contrast. Black hair hung into his eyes, and Tom flicked it back with an annoyed scowl as his lover merely laughed at the lecture.

“And you’re just boring. Come have some fun, Tom!” Anathema patted the snow on his clothes, melting it and leaving dark, wet patches on his silver shirt. His robe was thrown over a branch beside Tom’s head, and his school trousers were completely soaked through. Ana giggled lightly: Tom’s drying charm tickling his skin. “Thanks.”

“You are welcome, lover.” 

“Happy birthday, Tom,” Anathema whispered as he made his way towards his boyfriend. “You know how I gave you an amazing gift this morning?” 

Tom gave a predatory grin, his teeth bared, as he reached forward and dragged Anathema into his arms. “Ah yes,” he said, licking his lips. “Your virginity, what a delightful gift that was.” 

Ana’s face was stained a horrible red, and green eyes widened in embarrassment. “TOM!” He shrieked. “I bought you a gift as well you know,” he said, eyes narrowed now. 

“Oh of course, how could I have forgotten the very expensive gift you gave me? Perhaps I was distracted by the birthday sex?” The words sounded serious enough, but Anathema had learned to tell when Tom was only teasing him. 

With narrowed eyes, the younger boy slapped Tom’s arm and said, “well since I gave you _two_ amazing gifts, I think it’s only fair you repay me for one of them!” Tom’s eyebrows furrowed. Knowing his perverse mind, Ana figured Tom was trying to work out how many Galleons Anathema’s virginity had been worth. Ana slapped his arm again, annoyed. “Not like that!” He hissed. “I meant that you should give me a gift, not remunerate me.”

“Oh, and what gift would you like, beloved?” One pale hand was cupping Ana’s chin, the other clenched tightly around the boy’s waist. Tom’s lips brushed lightly along his lover’s own, and he smiled softly as Ana leaned forward to steal his lips. “Impatient,” he chided as they pulled apart. 

“Very.” Anathema agreed. His arms wrapped around Tom’s neck and he tugged his lover to him and their mouths met, heavy and hurried and wet. When they broke for air again Ana let one hand stroke lightly down the side of Tom’s face, tracing his features with his fingers as Tom watched him avidly. “I want you to teach me to become an animagus. Some of the older Gryffindors have mastered the art apparently. Two of them are even competing to become Dumbledore’s Transfiguration apprentice next year, assuming the old man doesn’t change his mind or ship them off onto another Master or something. Anyway, I’ve always wanted to learn, but I’ve never managed to find out much about the art. I bet you know everything there is to know about Animagi!” 

Tom had gone tense when Harry had first mentioned the ‘A’ word. The hand on Ana’s waist was clenching and unclenching, nails digging into the child’s skin through his shirt. Tom let his other hand drop away from his lover’s face, afraid of cutting the boy perhaps. 

“What’s the matter?” A soft voice asked after minutes of Tom’s silence. 

Tom remained silently for a moment longer. He took a few steps away from Harry and at his sides his hands clenched and unclenched, his knuckles turning bone white. “As much as it galls me to admit, I do… not know much about Animagi. I have not learnt that particular skill yet.”

Tom’s jaw was clenched, angry with himself for his perceived failure. As Anathema began to chuckle, Tom’s whole body loosened, relaxing slightly and he found himself with Ana pressed to his chest, smiling. “Is that all?” 

Tom did not respond. 

“Well we can learn together. That’ll be more fun than you knowing _everything_ and me looking like an abysmal failure in comparison, right?” 

“I would be honoured to share the experience with you,” Tom told him eventually. He spoke softly, eyes fixed on Ana’s smiling mouth, and he slowly let his hands tail up Anathema’s sides until they were wrapped around his neck. “I doubt you’ll be abysmal,” he said, chuckling, “though I will surpass you, no question.” 

Anathema scowled, and shoved Tom’s shoulder lightly. But he continued to smile. “What do you think you’ll be?” He didn’t pause to let Tom answer: instead, he rolled his eyes and said, “a snake, I bet. Well I disagree. I think you’ll be some sort of big-cat.”

“Prideful and vicious?” Tom teased, before pressing a light kiss to Anathema’s throat. 

“Dangerous, beautiful, and all mine.” Anathema answered. Their mouths met again, and Ana melted into the kiss allowing Tom to shove him backwards until he was trapped between the trunk of a tree and Tom’s hard body. 

“Mine!” Tom corrected with a snarl, his fingers knotting into Anathema’s dark hair. 

“All yours,” Ana panted between kisses, submitting with pleasure.

 _XXX_

June 1945. 

The Hogwarts graduation ceremony was an extraordinary affair. No cost was spared in its celebration of growth, maturity and independence. The graduating students wandered around, still wearing their maroon robes, pointed little hats still perched on their heads, except for the Slytherins (they actually had dignity). Tom had no family to celebrate with. He stood alone, watching the parents of his year mates congratulate each other for having ‘fine offspring’, ‘decent heirs’, and ‘future productive members of society’ all the while ignoring said children. Tom leant back against the wall, half wishing Anathema had been there and half wanting to lock himself into his bedroom for a few more minutes before reality hit. 

He was leaving Hogwarts. 

He was leaving home. 

He had turned down the position in the Ministry that had been offered to him, and it had been a terrible sacrifice. But he would be more likely and more readily able to find items to use as a Horcrux if he were working in a Dark Arts supply store. It was a fact, one he did not like or enjoy, but one that would eventually help him realize his goals. In a few years, when his Horcruxes were safe and he had more experience, he would come home and apply for a job as a Professor. Dumbledore would never turn him away, he wouldn’t dare. 

Anathema of course would come with him. Despite whatever occupation Ana would soon decide he wanted, they would live together in Hogwarts and Ana could Floo to work every day from the private fireplace that existed in a teacher’s living quarters. They would be together. They would be a family. One day, Tom would come home again. 

“Ah Mr. Riddle,” a voice said from behind him. 

Tom, who had begun walking away from the celebration, stopped and turned back. “Professor Dumbledore.” Tom greeted, a cold but polite smile on his face. “I was just on my way to see if the sixth years were finished with their classes for the day.”

“Ah yes, yes,” Dumbledore murmured. “Anathema was rather disappointed at having to miss your graduation ceremony, but his education comes first. Your valedictorian speech was ingenious, my boy, very impassioned. It brought a tear to my eye. I was going to offer a Pensieve copy to Anathema, of course, unless you wanted the honour?” 

Tom clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together loudly as he fought back the slew of insults that jumped to the forefront of his mind. He _hated_ how Dumbledore always addressed Ana by his first name. Every other student, even most of the Gryffindors, were ‘Mr’ or ‘Miss’, but not Ana. Never Ana. Tom was half convinced Dumbledore did it solely to aggravate him, but he remembered that even before Tom was on speaking terms with his lover, Anathema and Dumbledore had been rather close. If Tom hadn’t known for definite, he would say the two were related. Dumbledore treated Anathema as a son, or a nephew. Still, that didn’t meant Tom had to like it. 

“Yes,” he said at last, hands held behind his back so that Dumbledore couldn’t see him squeezing them tightly. “ **Mr. Black** will doubtlessly wish to view **my** memory of the event.” That wasn’t true: Anathema was as fond of Dumbledore, as Dumbledore was of him, but Tom felt as if he had won a competition of some sort when the twinkle in Albus’ eyes dimmed a little.

“Ah. Well, I’ll let you continue then, Mr. Riddle.” Albus offered him a small smile, which Tom ignored. “Enjoy your future career.” There was a smirk on Dumbledore’s lips now, and as Tom met his bright blue eyes the teenager flinched. 

Score one for Albus Dumbledore. 

Tom waited until Dumbledore was out of sight before he began making his way towards the dungeons. He met Anathema outside of his Head boy dormitory. The younger Wizard was pacing frantically, and froze completely when he noticed Tom watching his with amused eyes. 

“How did it go? You failed right? You messed up the speech so badly that Professor Dumbledore said you needed to repeat the year, right? Right!” The words blurred together as Ana spoke rapidly. It sounded more like a loud rushing of air, but Tom had heard it over and over for the last few months and he knew exactly what Anathema was afraid of hearing. 

“On the contrary. You are now looking at a past student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I have finally joined ranks with the infinite alumni of this institute. Don’t worry, lover,” Tom said as Anathema slumped forward dejectedly, “it won’t be much longer until you graduate too.”

“I can’t believe you are leaving me.” 

Tom’s hand stroked lightly down one of Anathema’s cheeks, wiping away the scant few tears that escaped from his tightly closed eyes. “I will _never_ leave you. Now come,” he said, opening the doorway to his living space and guiding the younger man inside, “onto pleasanter topics.”

“The Horcruxes!” Ana grinned. “I don’t see why you still refuse to use Gryffindor’s Sword. It’s inside of the building after all! All you have to do is go and get it. I could even help you, or do it for you if you’re too scared?” The teasing smile on his lips slipped away as Tom took a threatening step forward. 

“Scared?” Riddle hissed, eyes narrowed. “I fear nothing and no one.” He shoved Anathema backwards, and the boy gasped as he fell onto the sofa that was just behind him. Tom waited until he was comfortable before he crawled over Ana, pinning him to the chair. “You need to be punished for your sedition.” 

Anathema tilted his chin up, opening his mouth just barely as Tom leant down to meet his lips. “I like your punishments,” he whispered, a soft pink blush on his cheeks. 

“Oh I know you do, naughty boy.” Tom smirked widely, his hand palming the bulge in Anathema’s trousers. Tom continued to talk as he unbuttoned Ana’s trousers and began to stroke his length. He talked about his graduation, his future job, the job he really wanted in the future, his Horcruxes, Anathema’s Horcruxes; Anathema listened, but didn’t reply, too busy panting and gasping, his back arched and his arms locked around Tom’s neck as he was pleasured. 

On the ring finger of Anathema’s left hand was Tom’s ring. The small black stone was scratched and cracked, but Ana had been able to make out the pattern of the Deathly Hallows. Tom had known it was important, and now that it was a Horcrux it was doubly so, and Tom knew that his lover wanted the ring. Anathema didn’t know if Tom knew it was the resurrection stone, and he didn’t ask either. The Hallows would be his, and he didn’t put it past Tom to find them and ‘gift’ Ana with them all the while smugly smiling while Anathema fumed. As helpful as Tom believed he would be, _Ana_ would find the Hallows himself. He would complete the Quest alone.

“The Sword of Gryffindor could be used for your Horcrux?” Tom suggested after he had cleaned them off. They lay side by side on the floor of Tom’s shared common room, uncaring if the Head girl might walk in. Both of their trousers were opened and Tom’s robe was crumpled on the ground beneath his head and Ana was panting heavily, but neither cared. This was possibly their last moments alone together: next year Anathema would be off to Hogwarts alone and Tom didn’t get much opportunity to see Ana at Grimmauld Place during the summers.

“I don’t want a Horcrux, Tom,” he said softly. He fingered the ring on his ring finger. It wasn’t a proposal, because Tom would have needed Arcturus’ permission for that. But Tom had wanted a way to claim Anathema without giving him the Dark Mark; the ring would do for now. Anathema smiled softly, turning his head so he could press a kiss to Tom’s neck. “I’m going to master the Hallows, remember?” _Just two more to go_ , he thought, still smiling. 

_XXX_

July 31st 1945. 

It was Anathema’s birthday. 

Orion was the only one to notice that Anathema wasn’t in the house. He was the youngest member of this branch of the Black family, tall for his age with shaggy dark hair and fathomless grey-blue eyes, with a chiselled jaw and sharp nose; he was the picture of aristocracy.1 But that was easily overlooked, as he was never seen without a gleeful smile on his mouth. If Orion could have gotten away with it, he would probably have bounced everywhere he went, he was constantly that happy. Arcturus wouldn’t like that though. 

He searched through his brother’s room and library first, but couldn’t find Ana. He was the only member of the family who actually liked Anathema, but that was ok because he was the only family member that _Anathema_ liked in return. The others still called him a ‘Mudblood’ or ‘half-blood’ in private, and a ‘disgrace’ and ‘pathetic’ in public. 

No one but the members of the Black family actually knew about the circumstances of Anathema’s birth. Most just thought he was treated so badly because he was practically a Squib (which was ridiculous, because he was attaining the highest practical scores in his year) or because he was obviously Arcturus’ bastard son by another woman. It was believed she was a Witch, now disgraced and in hiding (or dead by Arcturus’ hand), but no one once considered his mother might have been Muggle. Despite the fact that she was a rape victim of one of Grindelwald’s raids, and births such as Anathema’s had been happening more and more regularly as the war reached its crescendo, Muggles were still Muggles. 

Orion didn’t care how Anathema had been conceived. He had no love for Muggles, but despite his mother’s place in the scheme of things she was unimportant. It was Ana who mattered. He was still half a Pureblood, and he was Orion’s brother. 

The small box in Orion’s hands jingled slightly as the fifteen year old reached for the handle of Anathema’s other favourite hideaway. The dungeon was cold and dusty, and Orion sneezed as he made his way down the stairs. There was someone moaning, some unfortunate Muggle probably, brought home by one of his father’s friends to help drag on the ‘cause’2. Orion tried to ignore him. 

“Ana?” He called softly, watching where he was putting his feet. No one answered him. “I have a present for you. Are you here?” The moaned grew a little louder, but his brother still didn’t answer. 

Just to be on the safe side, Orion followed the groaning, determined to make sure it wasn’t Anathema in that cell despite how unlikely it was. Father had stopped the beatings when Anathema began Hogwarts. The camaraderie that existed between Ana and the defeater of Grindelwald might have been enough to push his father over the edge though. 

It wasn’t his brother crouched over in the cell. In fact, the battered man wasn’t even a Muggle. He looked rather a lot like an old friend of his father’s, and Orion flinched as he realized it was the Wizard who had turned traitor to the ‘cause’ a few months back. 

“Help me,” he whispered through broken teeth. 

“I’m looking for my brother,” was all Orion could think to say. “He isn’t here.” With wide eyes and trembling hands, Orion backed away from the cell. He ran from the dungeons, dropping the present but not wanting to stop and go back for it. 

The Wizard watched him go, shuffling closer to the bars and stretching out his arm to snatch the abandoned gift. 

“To Anathema, my favourite brother, happy birthday!” The Wizard read straight from the card, and scoffed. Inside the box was a rather expensive looking invisibility cloak. Orion had known that Anathema was searching for one, but fortunately this _wasn’t_ the one Ana wanted. The Wizard drew it around his shoulders and over his head and disappeared from view. He hoped he’d die from starvation before Arcturus remembered him and came looking. 

Anathema wasn’t home. When he came back Orion wouldn’t mention the gift, instead he’d hand over a bag of Galleons and admit that he couldn’t find anything that Ana might have liked. He didn’t ask where Anathema had been. 

_XXX_

Earlier. 

Tom had managed to find himself a pokey little flat just outside of magical London. With the defeat of Grindelwald and the death of Hitler most of the England were leaving the country and heading back into the towns and cities that had remained half empty for so long. Tom felt it was about time to leave the orphanage. One day, he’d visit them, and… thank them for their kind hospitality and care of him. But until that day he was content with the two-room flat he had found. At the moment it was all he could afford. When he started working, he would save up and be reasonable with his expenditure, but the first thing he would do though was repay Anathema the deposit price. After that, he would save completely, putting all of his money away so he could treat himself and his lover. Then he would apply at Hogwarts and he would have no need of somewhere else to live. 

Arcturus would die soon, sooner if Tom had a say in it, and Anathema was bound to inherit a home for them to live in. Together. 

“Stop wool gathering, Tom,” Ana giggled. “You’ll get wrinkles.” 

“Merlin forbid,” he drawled in response. “You mightn’t love me if I loose my handsome good looks!”

“Who ever said you was handsome?” Ana asked with a bright smile. “I certainly don’t think so!”

“Oh?” Tom asked, raising an eyebrow. “I seem to remember you saying something different when you arrived this morning.”

“Yes well,” Ana murmured, blushing. “That was said under duress. That thing you do with your tongue is illegal, you know?” 

Tom chuckled, sprawled out across the small couch that took up half his second room. The couch was positioned in front of a small coffee table, and the other half of the room was actually a small kitchenette. The first room was smaller, but it had an en suit and a bed and wardrobe. It was Spartan, but suitable for the time being. 

Anathema placed a plate of sandwiches on the coffee table and dropped himself down onto Tom’s legs. The elder boy gave a grunt, but didn’t say anything negative, so Ana wiggled to get comfortable and then helped himself to the food. 

“I’ve finished my transformation, you know? I bet you perfected it weeks ago, but thank you for waiting to show me until after I was done too.”

Tom reached up to brush back Anathema’s fringe. “I would not torment you so obviously, lover. It would be cruel and unnecessary to rub your abysmal performance in your face. Now come,” he added before Ana could defend himself, “show me.”

“You first?” The other boy whispered shyly. 

Tom gave a nod. Anathema stood up, letting Tom slide off the couch and crouch on the floor. The change was so smooth and effortless it left Ana staring in awe. He sat heavily on the sofa, wide eyed as he reached out hesitantly to pet the panther’s head.3 Tom flicked out his long pink tongue, aiming for Ana’s fingers, and the Wizard giggled again. “You’re beautiful.” Tom gave a growl. “Sorry, sorry,” Anathema amended, “you’re handsome! I think I’ll name you Than.” 

Tom changed back without warning. Anathema continued to stroke his face for a moment, before his brain caught up with his eyes and he let his hand drop to the side. Tom caught it as it fell and squeezed it lightly. “Why Than?”

“It means Death.” Tom narrowed his eyes, and Anathema smiled widely. “You don’t have to be afraid of death any longer, Lord Voldemort. I’m here, with you, always. Will you name me?”

He changed then, without waiting for a reply. He shrunk in on himself, folding in half almost as his hands and feet shifted and mutated. Paws rested on the ground and black fur sprouted all along Anathema’s skin. His head twisted and grew, a muzzle nudged at Tom’s hand, and the elder Wizard slowly reached out to touch the Grim. The large dog-like creature watched him curiously, wondering what Tom thought of his Animagus form. 

“I will name you Apep. He was an Egyptian serpent-god, powerful and dangerous. The enemy of the sun, the Light.” Anathema tilted his head to one side, _why a snake?_ he seemed to ask and Tom smirked. Pale fingers ran over Ana’s back, pausing at certain points to press down on patches that were definitely not fur. “You have scales all along your spine. Black fur and navy scales, almost indistinguishable, and your eyes- you have my eyes.” Navy eyes blinked up at him from the Grim’s head and Tom grinned widely. It was yet another claim he had on the boy: Anathema’s green eyes had changed in the transformation, changing to the colour of Riddle’s own. 

Ana changed back, blinking green eyes at Tom, as he straightened his clothes. “My eyes changed colours?” 

“Yesss,” Tom drew out the word, almost hissing in pleasure. “They did.”

“I bet you’re loving this.” Anathema said with a snort. He threw himself back onto the couch and picked up his half-eaten sandwich. “Smug, possessive bastard.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.” Tom murmured as he sat closed beside his lover. Anathema flashed him a soft smile, and didn’t argue. They cuddled closer, Tom with a protective arm around his lover, as Anathema ate. “Do you have to go home tonight?”

“It’s not home. Home is with you, Tom. You know that. But yes, Orion will have noticed I’m missing. I hope he doesn’t ask anyone where I’ve gone though, because that’s the only way my **family** ,” he spat out the word, “will notice I’m gone.”

“I’m sure he has more sense than to stir trouble in such a manner. This time next year, Anathema, I promise we will be together all of the time.”

“Good,” Ana whispered, pressing his face against Tom’s chest. “I’m going to miss you until then.”

“You’ll enjoy your last year at Hogwarts.” Tom promised. “Even if I have to put you under the _Imperious_.” Anathema had dozed off, and so did not rise to the bait. Tom let him sleep for an hour and then woke him. They both remained silent as Anathema left the flat and prepared to apparate to Grimmauld Place. 

“I love you,” Ana whispered, and left. Tom didn’t have a chance to respond, but he remained standing on the doorstep long after Anathema had left wondering if he actually was _capable_ of reciprocating. 

_XXX_

October 12th 1939. 

**He was talking to someone, but a third person kept answering before he could reply. It was very, very annoying. He turned to glare at them, and fortunately they suddenly remembered somewhere else they had to be.**

**“That wasn’t very nice, Tom,” Lucretia Black chided lightly.**

**Tom knew she didn’t mean it as anything other than meaningless words, said to carry the conversation forward. She wouldn’t dare to chastise him seriously, no one would. Tom Riddle may have only been a second year, and a ‘Mudblood orphan’ for most of the last year at Hogwarts, but people had since learnt he was not to be trifled with. Those he had deigned to punish had spread the word. Tom was to be respected and feared, and potentially avoided where possible. People like Tom didn’t exist often, but he was here now, and people were already comparing him to Grindelwald. Tom doubted Grindelwald’s childhood was anything like his own, nor were there personalities likely similar if they had been raised in completely different circumstances. But if it kept the older years compliant and respectful, Tom would allow them to continue believing in their ridiculous fantasies.**

**“What were you saying?” Tom murmured, flicking his eyes to the left when Lucretia continued to stare at him in silence.**

**“I was just saying how some of the elder students had asked me to invite you to a party they are throwing in the common room tomorrow night. It should be fun. We could introduce you to some of the Ravenclaws who will be attending, and the Slytherins who have yet to have the pleasure of your company.”**

**Tom doubted his company was all that pleasurable, and a grin like a shark’s fixed itself onto his face. Before he could comment on the absurd comment that was obviously Black’s attempt at sucking up, something struck him in the chest.**

**Tom reached out on instinct, and caught the other boy by the shoulders. A small, dark haired child took several steps back. His pale face was marred by an angry scowl and his green eyes narrowed as they ran the length of Tom Riddle and looked away wanting. “Watch where you’re going,” he hissed and made to move around Tom.**

**Before he could go anywhere, Lucretia reached out and grabbed his wrist. She shook the child, hard enough for the book he had been holding to fall from his hands. Tom bent down to retrieve it, and when he went to hand it back to its owner (strangely having no desire to keep the obviously cherished possession for himself like he did when his dorm mates annoyed him) he found Lucretia and the strange boy engaged in an argument. Their whispered hisses and insults had drawn the attention of the dungeon’s residents, and a handful of Tom’s ‘friends’ watched rabidly for Tom’s reaction.**

**“Apologize to Tom now. Now, Anathema!” Lucretia spat, still shaking the smaller child. The 3rd year girl looked ready to foam at the mouth when Anathema continued to remain silent. She shoved him towards Tom, who reached out to catch the boy. He didn’t want him hurt, for some reason. Lucretia had almost shoved him to the ground, but Tom’s hands on his waist steadied him. “Sorry!” Lucretia whispered, “I’m sorry!”**

**“I’m not,” Anathema said with another scowl. He wrenched himself out of Tom’s grip, and snatched his book from where it had fallen to the ground again. He pushed his way past the crowd, ignoring their excited and frightened murmurings, and he didn’t once look back at Tom Riddle who watched him in confusion, frustration and curiosity.**

**“Who is he?” He asked, his voice soft and light, but Lucretia took a step back from the actual feeling in his words. He was genuinely interested in knowing, though Tom didn’t understand why.**

**“That’s my brother,” the 3rd year said, “Anathema Mallory Black. Pathetic disgrace that he is,” she said, grinning, and obviously waiting for Tom to agree with her. She stopped smiling, as Tom remained silent.**

**Behind them, the crowd of Tom’s future Death Eaters stirred and murmured louder. One man stepped forward and grabbed Tom’s arm. “We’ll take care of the brat if you’d like, Tom?” He asked, leering after Anathema’s retreated form in a way that made Tom’s stomach churn.**

**His hand struck the elder Wizard across the face with a sharp crack. He fell to the stone floor, grunting from the force of the impact and looked up at Tom with horrified eyes.**

**“You will do no such thing. Anathema is _mine_. Do you all understand? He belongs to me.” Everyone agreed instantly, assuming that Tom wanted to be the one to punish Ana for his disrespect. For a moment, Tom entertained that idea, but then pushed it out of his mind. That wasn’t what he wanted, he knew that much. He wanted Anathema… not in pain. He wanted something else, but what? **

**He continued to make his way through the corridor, ignoring the group of students who remained behind him, frozen in shock. Green eyes flashed behind his closed eyelids, as they fluttered shut momentarily. Tom continued walking, his eyes closed to savour the memory of meeting Anathema for the first time, and he trusted that everyone (Gryffindors also) would move out of his way.**

Voldemort’s eyes snapped open. His sheets were tangled around his bare legs and a light sheen of sweat covered his chest and arms. He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes closed and snapping them open again as Anathema’s face assaulted his vision. 

He had thought he had dealt with this, thought he had removed those feelings and thoughts and memories, purged them from his mind and hidden them away within his Horcruxes. 

But, with the destruction of his two first Horcruxes, changes had been taking place within him. These dreams of his past had become more frequent, almost nightly occurrences. Mostly it was just like watching a film; there were no thoughts or emotions involved on his part. The Tom Riddle of his memories felt everything as he had once felt, but for Lord Voldemort is was surreal, emotionless. He ran his hand over his head, and small patches of hair gave way under his long, pale fingers. Voldemort frowned. Changes had been happening to his body as well. 

With the destruction of the Diary years ago he had felt a surge in power and magic, enough to change him to more than ‘less-than-a-ghost’, as he had once described himself. He was still a spirit, but now he could possess more than animals and weak-minded fools like Quirrell. Voldemort knew Anath- his ring was destroyed. His spies at Hogwarts had told him as much last year, and with its destruction hair had begun to grow on his arms and legs and his head. Very, very slowly, unnaturally slowly, but it was happening. He was changing, because two of his Horcruxes had been destroyed years apart. Briefly, he wondered what kind of changes would occur if several were to be destroyed at once, but then he pushed the thought away. Only Anathema had known where his Horcruxes were hidden. No one else would find them, certainly not Potter without Dumbledore’s help! 

Voldemort had hoped that with Dumbledore dead he would be able to retrieve his ring. But Dumbledore had not taken it to the grave, and Voldemort had more important things to search for than Anathema’s resurrection stone. 

He stood from the bed, and began to dress. It was pre-dawn but Voldemort knew he would not be getting any more sleep. It had always been hard to sleep restfully without Ana beside him. “I have other things to do,” he told himself, angrily subduing thoughts of his dead, damned Anathema. 

He had an Elder Wand to master. 

**XXX**

TBC :)


	8. Chapter 08

Again, unbeta'd. Let me know what you think! :)

 

 **Words:** 4,368  
 **Chapter 8**  
March 24th 1998. 

Remus’ voice spoke quietly over the Wireless. Harry, Ron and Hermione kept their attention firmly on the _Potterwatch_ , desperate for news of their friends and families. So far, two people they knew were dead and one old school friend was missing. It wasn’t good news, but it was better than no news, Harry supposed. 

By the time Fred (or was it George) began to broadcast, Harry was smiling widely. He let out a small laugh, and met Hermione’s bright, wet eyes, and grinned. The tension seemed to be floating away from him. The humorous banter between ‘River’ and ‘Rapier’ had lightened the previously gloomy mood, and Harry almost felt as if he had no worries in the world. It was a nice feeling. To be carefree, and unburdened, even if only for a handful of minutes, was a feeling Harry would cherish until the war was over. 

And then Harry’s brain seemed to shift into gear. His eyes narrowed, his forehead creased and at his sides he began to clench and unclench his fists. “Did you hear what Fred said?” He asked the others, trying to sound excited, as if Voldemort leaving the country was actually a good thing. In actual fact, Harry felt anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach. His teeth were grinding, and it was a chore for him to stop long enough to say, “He’s still looking for the wand.” _My wand_ , he added silently. “I knew it!”

“Harry,” Hermione tried to protest, but Harry wasn’t listening. He knew Voldemort was after his wand, Anathema’s wand, but his friends wouldn’t listen. He was sick of being ignored. Ron and Hermione kept waving away his concerns and ideas, and every time he was right about something they considered it simple luck. But he was right this time, he was _right_. 

“Voldemort’s after the Elder Wand!” Harry yelled. 

“The name’s taboo!” Ron cried. Harry ignored Ron’s bellows and Hermione’s screaming. His eyes were riveted on the sneakoscope on the small table. It had lit up, and was spinning wildly, and from outside of the tent Harry could suddenly hear excited voices and rough footsteps. 

“Come out of there with your hands up!” A rasping voice called from the darkness, and Harry let his eyes slide shut, pain dancing across his forehead momentarily as he wondered whether this was the end of the line. Was he about to come face to face with Lord Voldemort again? “We know you’re in there!” 

Pain flared through Harry’s face, and Hermione lowered her wand just as unknown hands reached for them, dragging them forward and out of the tent. Harry could barely see; his face was sore and swollen, his eyes slits he couldn’t see out of. His glasses had fallen somewhere, and his wand was taken off of him, and Harry twisted his head around, desperately trying to work out how many enemies they were surrounded by. 

“What’s your name?” Fenrir Greyback snarled. 

Harry’s mind went blank. What could he say? He couldn’t give his real name! Greyback was definitely a Death Eater but he wasn’t sure about the others. There was no way they’d be able to escape, tied up and weapon less; not from so many people, at least. “Anathema… Bla-” he paused, unsure whether he could give the Black name. How many Anathema’s could there be? It was such a strange and unpleasant name, but then again the Black’s were an unpleasant family. “Dudley.” He finished, swallowing heavily. 

“Bladudley?” One of the men asked, scratching his head. He held a sheet of parchment in his hands, and he looked over it with a scowl. “He isn’t on my list.”

“He’s lying,” Fenrir said. The other Snatchers moved closer to Hermione and Ron, questioning them, and occasionally smacking Ron across the face. But Fenrir leaned in close to Harry: narrowed eyes and sharp teeth were all he could see. “What’s your name, ugly?” 

“Anathema.” Harry said, clearing his throat. His hands were sweating and his legs were trembling, but he held his head up and tried to act the same as he had seen Anathema act. They were the same person, weren’t they? So there was no reason to be so nervous about giving that name as _his_ name. “My name is Anathema Black. I live with the Dudleys though. My father works at the Ministry. I wasn’t sure which name to give you!” 

The name sounded familiar to Fenrir, but he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t a real Death Eater, he had no dark mark, but he was allowed to wear the robes in return for his savagery. Perhaps he had heard people speaking of ‘Anathema’? Likely, they had stopped when he walked by. 

“Check for Dudley!” He ordered, casting Harry one last suspicious glance before dragging him towards the others. 

“Not on the list.” The man with the list frowned, “isn’t there a Dudley at the Ministry?” 

Fenrir ignored him. His attention was on the other two teenagers now, and on the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that he had just been handed. A wide smirk settled on his mouth, exposing sharp, yellowed teeth. “Hermione Granger. Known to be travelling with Harry Potter.” He quoted off the page. Fenrir dismissed Ron with a sneer and turned to face Harry once again. “Anathema, huh? Well, this changes things, don’t it?”

Pain flared in Harry’s head again. With a low moan, he hunched his shoulders, wanting desperately to press his hands to his forehead but he couldn’t as they were tied. The skin of his face was stretched tight, and the scar was unrecognisable, but the pain wasn’t dulled in any way by Hermione’s hex. In fact, it was almost worse. 

“I say we take him straight to You-Know-Who,” Greyback suggested. 

While they argued Harry’s fate amongst themselves, Harry closed his eyes. Behind closed eyelids he could see Voldemort flying, gliding to the top of the highest tower in Nuremgard and floating his way inside through the lone tiny window. The Snatchers took them to Malfoy Manor, but Harry didn’t pay much attention. He could feel Fenrir’s claw-like nails digging into his scalp as the werewolf disapparated them both, but he could only see Voldemort and Grindelwald. He could only listen to them discussing the Elder Wand. He didn’t notice Narcissa Malfoy, who met them in the entrance hall, or Draco who hovered uncomfortably beside the fireplace, or Lucius who had been reading in a chair. 

**I never had it** , Grindelwald said. 

So who had? 

Harry’s brain was going a mile a minute, trying desperately to work it out before Voldemort did. Needing to claim his wand, _his_ , before Voldemort could steal it away from him. The Dark Lord had his Horcruxes, why did he need Harry’s Hallows as well? 

**You lie!** Voldemort hissed, his anger palpable. 

No, Harry thought, he wasn’t lying. Grindelwald had been disarmed before the end, before Nuremgard. He was no longer the Master of the Elder Wand. 

“Well, Draco? Is it? Is it Harry Potter?” Lucius Malfoy was face to face with him by the time Harry came back to himself. 

Draco? Harry mouthed the word, ignoring the way Lucius’ hands were ghosting across his forehead. Draco had disarmed Dumbledore as Harry watched, and Dumbledore had disarmed Grindelwald. Dumbledore, who had been buried with his wand. 

The Elder Wand. 

A smile crossed Harry’s lips, faint and fleeting, but he couldn’t deny the unexpected burst of happiness that bubbled within his gut.

“Why are you laughing, boy?” Lucius queried. “What happened to your face?”

“Looks like a Stinging Jinx,” someone answered him, while Harry remained silent. “He said his name was Anathema Black. You’re a Black, ain’t you?” Everyone turned to face Narcissa, whose mouth was open with shock. Her pale face had flushed red and her pale eyebrows had disappeared beneath her hairline. 

“What did you say your name was, boy?” She breathed, taking a small step towards him. She couldn’t imagine how Harry Potter could ever know that name! It was a Black family secret, and there were barely anyone left alive who had known outside of their family. Sirius wouldn’t have flouted tradition so boldly as to confide about his uncle to Potter, surely not? “Where did you hear that name?” 

“What is this?” Bellatrix Lestrange asked, walking slowly into the room and around the prisoners. There were five of them in total, including Harry, and each of them cringed as the dark haired Witch stared at them through heavily lidded eyes. “What’s happened, Cissy?”

“Greyback has caught the Mudblood Granger. We think this is Potter, but,” she paused, glancing around at the Snatchers. They weren’t family, and they weren’t Death Eaters. They didn’t deserve to know about Anathema. “But he says his name is,” she leant over to whisper in her sister’s ear, and Bellatrix gasped, rearing back as if she had been struck across the face. Both sets of eyes narrowed onto Harry’s swollen face, suspicious and calculating. 

“Finite,” Bellatrix breathed, her wand pointed at Harry’s nose. 

The swelling reduced around his eyes first, and without the glasses obscuring them they were as green as Anathema’s own. Narcissa gasped, a soft exclamation of breath as she breathed, “He looks like the painting.” 

Harry frowned: it seemed the Dark Lord hadn’t destroyed them all, after all. 

His skin was a shade darker than Ana’s had been, his cheeks more rounded. But their noses were the same, and their eyes and their lips. Most Pureblood families were related, and some traits crossed over even after surnames changed. Sirius looked like Orion, Harry looked like his father, but somehow, Harry ended up looking rather similar to Anathema, despite Anathema looking nothing like James. It wasn’t that they looked the same, but rather they had similar features, and if one knew what to look for, they could happily see Anathema in Harry. 

“Ana? I don’t believe it!” Narcissa was trembling, a hand pressed to her chest. 

“Take away the others. Keep this one here,” Bellatrix ordered. Her dark eyes were wide and fixed on Harry. For the time being, his fringe covered his scar, but the moment he moved, he knew he’d expose himself. He held still while they untied his friends, kept his head lowered as his friends were taken from the room, but when Bellatrix noticed _his_ Sword, he jumped forward, snarling. 

“It’s MINE!” He hissed, angry beyond belief. 

First Ron had stolen the Sword from him, and then Hermione had taken his Locket. He would not lose his Sword to the woman who murdered Sirius, he would not! 

“Where did you get this sword?” Bellatrix demanded, turning her attention from Greyback to Harry at his shout. “Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!” She was worried, terrified even; Harry could see it in her eyes. He allowed another small smile to cross his lips. He may have been kidnapped and taken to Voldemort, but today was turning out to be a lucky day. Voldemort was out of the country, everyone thought he was Anathema and had forgotten that he was Harry Potter, he had figured out where the Elder Wand was, and now he knew where another Horcrux was. Bellatrix was shaking too badly to have just been worried about the sword. 

Hermione was shaking beside Greyback, having been ordered to remain behind. Ron, Dean and whoever were gone, and Harry glared hatefully at Bellatrix’s pale face. 

“It’s mine. It’s always been mine. He gave it to me!” Harry didn’t know why he was saying that, why he was insinuating that he meant something to Voldemort, but he couldn’t keep the words from tumbling out of his mouth. The Sword had been promised to Anathema, as a Horcrux, and then later Tom had sought it for himself. But it was Harry’s now, and damn anyone who would take it from him. Without his glasses he couldn’t see very well, but he launched himself at Bellatrix, and after a short struggle he managed to wrench the sword from her grip. “ **It’s mine** ,” he hissed, accidentally slipping into Parseltongue. 

Bellatrix was watching him as if he were a rabid animal. Lucius, who was wandless, hovered out of the way, he and Draco with their backs pressed to the fireplace mantle. Narcissa had her wand raised, but after being raised on stories of the Dark Lord’s love for Anathema she couldn’t bring herself to curse the boy, even though he was so obviously Harry Potter. 

Without warning, Harry’s hand shot forward pointed in Draco’s direction and he thought hard about how much he wanted to, needed to, had to, complete the Quest. Then he cast ‘ _Accio_ ’, and a wand met his hand with a painful smack. It wasn’t the only one. He threw Draco’s away from him, having no need for it now that he was the Master of the Elder Wand, but then Bellatrix’s wand came shooting towards him, pointed at his eye. He reached up to grab it and it thrummed darkly in his hand. Almost subconsciously, he gripped the handle, pointing it at the Witch who had suddenly leaped towards him. 

Behind him, Hermione screamed, Fenrir’s claws tight around her biceps. Harry snarled, his face twisting and changing, fur and scales sprouted along his spine, and his legs and arms bent and shrunk. With a cry, he fell to all fours, and suddenly he was leaping over Bellatrix, then coming to land behind her, his mouth full of fangs and saliva and navy blue eyes burning with anger. 

She backed away from the snarling Grim, reaching out a hand towards Hermione. Harry snarled again, lowered himself closer to the floor, his muscles taunt as he prepared to spring again. A small pop caught everyone’s attention, and as the Death Eaters turned to inspect the house elf that had appeared in the room, Harry knocked Bellatrix to the floor and had positioned himself protectively over his friend. 

“DOBBY!” Hermione screamed. The Elf appeared by their side, laying a hand on each of their heads, and they disappeared. 

Bellatrix lowered her arm; the knife she had pulled from her robes was missing. She smirked to herself. Harry Potter might have escaped, but maybe that was for the best? The Dark Lord would want to deal with ‘Anathema’ himself, after all. She consoled herself with the knowledge that at least that traitorous Malfoy elf would never interfere with the Dark Lord’s plans again. 

_XXX_

March 25th 1998. 

He stood beside the Black Lake, the marble tomb reflected in its waters. It was split open down the middle; Dumbledore’s corpse lay un-shrouded at its centre. Voldemort strode forward; unhesitatingly ripping the wand from between Dumbledore’s clasped hands. Sparks shot from its tip, falling over its previous owner. At last, the Elder Wand had a new master. 

Voldemort made his way to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. His old yew wand was tucked into his robe pocket, and he smiled serenely as the fingers of one hand traced the length of his new wand. Anathema has searched for it, he reminisced. But it was his now, not Ana’s because Anathema was no longer there. 

_And whose fault is that_ , his mind whispered nastily. 

Voldemort froze, hands stilling and throat working convulsively as he fought back the onslaught of horrible memories that attempted to drown his mind. Ana crying; Ana screaming; bleeding; dying: no, he didn’t want to relieve it. That was the point of creating a Horcrux from Nagini. Those memories were supposed to live within her, but lately, for the last few months, all he could do was remember and **feel**. It was not something he was enjoying. There were happier memories of Anathema to relive, but all of them disturbed him equally. 

The Dark Lord looked over his shoulder at the silhouette of Hogwarts, and disapparated. 

He appeared within the atrium of Malfoy Manor, the Deathstick clutched in one hand and the other hand pressed to his forehead. A sudden pain in his skull overcame him. Bellatrix was at his feet, murmuring something that he couldn’t listen to. Someone else was speaking to him, no- they were speaking to Harry Potter. He was listening to Potter’s conversation, completely accidentally (unlike the times when he forced their mental connection to work in his favour), and he wasn’t liking what he was hearing. 

**I don’t think he’d have told Bellatrix it was a Horcrux, though. He never told Lucius Malfoy the truth about the diary**.

 **You really understand him**. The red haired Weasley replied.

Voldemort’s lip curled at Harry’s answer. Bits of him, the boy had said. But was it truly possible to understand Lord Voldemort? Anathema had tried, and maybe Anathema had managed to understand a layer of the Dark Lord but there had been plenty he was capable of that his lover had not known, should never have known, and look how well that had worked out for Anathema Black. _Perhaps Potter should try harder to understand me_ , Voldemort thought caustically, _it might be the death of him_. 

“What are you jabbering on about Bella?” He hissed eyes un-narrowing as the pain passed away. 

“Potter and his friends escaped, my Lord,” she breathed, her forehead touching the floor. 

“Potter was here?” Voldemort asked, “When?” He hadn’t picked up any unusual feelings from the boy lately, which was unusual in itself. Their connection was accidental but it was deep and Potter broadcasted loudest when he was afraid or angry. Potter had been angry a lot lately, Voldemort mused, but the feelings over rage and hate had vanished along with the death of his Locket. And with the end of his Horcrux, came memories and feelings and _desires_ Voldemort had long thought he was above. The diary, the locket, the ring: how many more did he have to recreate before he would finally be rid of his past? 

“Yesterday, my Lord. A House-Elf helped them escape after Potter performed a full-animagus transformation.” Bellatrix paused, looking over at her pale-faced sister. 

Narcissa stepped forward, slow and hesitant, her eyes wide with fear. “It might not have been Harry Potter. He said his name was Anathema Black.” Voldemort’s head snapped towards her, his eyes fixing on her face with an intensity that terrified her.

“Explain!” He demanded, sounding far more desperate than he intended. Just the sound of his damned lover’s name was like a sword in his gut, his followers speaking of something he wished to forget (but couldn’t honestly bare to have lived without) angered him, and Potter _of all people_ using that name struck something within him, something strange that resonated throughout his entire being. For a moment, he thought it was anger or disgust or despair. But it was curiosity. Why would Potter use that name and where would he have heard it? And why would the name be enough to have stilled Bellatrix’s wand? Unless they looked enough alike to have surprised a fellow Black? Merlin, could they be related?

Narcissa stuttered, and Bellatrix trembled still bowed on the floor. 

“ _Legilimens_!” He hissed, the Elder Wand pointed between Narcissa’s eyes. 

The Grim leapt away from him, sailing over Bellatrix and landing above the Mudblood on the ground. The rest of the memory swam past him, blurry and insignificant, but this, this repeated over and over. The Grim looked at him, snarled at Bellatrix and jumped. The Grim hovered over Granger, defending her with claws and teeth and scales along its spine. From every angle, navy blue eyes glared, navy scales shimmered under the lighting and soft, black fur stood on end. 

Voldemort assumed the fur was soft; Anathema’s had been. 

Navy eyes. 

Potter’s animagus form had navy eyes. He was also a Grim. Just like Anathema had been. And before Potter had changed, his eyes had been so green without the glasses, and his lips and mouth were the same shape and size, begging to be stolen and claimed. 

It was possible, of course it was. Reincarnation wasn’t unheard of in the Wizarding world, though it was unusual. But when had Harry Potter ever done anything normal? The very strange thing about the situation was that Voldemort had not noticed sooner. How hadn’t he? Right then, in that memory, those moments Voldemort had missed while fulfilling the wishes of a dead boy, Anathema was alive and well. 

He pulled out of the memory, navy and green eyes alternating behind his closed eyelids, and he chuckled to himself. 

His dead, damned Anathema had come back to haunt him. 

His mouth opened, but sound refused to escape him. Narcissa lowered herself to her knees, trembling along with her sister, but he ignored them. Voldemort’s attention was on Draco Malfoy, who had knelt down as well, but for a different reason. He and his father had been relatively ignored up until this point, but now Voldemort strode towards him. He stopped beside Draco, just as the blond pulled his wand from the middle of the fireplace.

“My L-lord?” He whispered, looking at Voldemort’s feet. 

“Potter disarmed you,” he told the teenager. Draco nodded, and a hoarse laugh left the Dark Lord as he looked down at the Elder Wand in his hand. 

Harry Potter needed to die. 

Hope that had flared within him shrivelled. Desires that he couldn’t quite ignore rushed through him, but he fought against them. He ignored the desire to kidnap the boy and force him to be Ana, he resisted the lust that welled within him at the thought of Potter’s mouth, and he found it easier and easier to remember that Potter needed to die the longer he stared at the Deathstick. 

He wasn’t its Master. 

But he would be. 

Anathema had only come back to torment him, but Voldemort would master that problem as well. 

_XXX_

July 1994. 1

Riddle Manor loomed before them, dark and uninviting but cleaner than Harry remembered it being in his fourth year. The lane was gravelled and uneven, and Harry carefully made his way after Tom and Anathema towards the front door. 

The other two teenagers were solid and _there_ , but not once did they glance towards Harry. The whole occurrence reminded him shockingly of when he was pulled into the diary, and Harry wondered briefly if maybe he had accidently stumbled upon another Horcrux. He pushed the idea away though, because it wasn’t likely. Griphook still hadn’t agreed to bring him to another Horcrux, and Harry doubted that whatever was hidden within Bellatrix’s Gringotts vault would be the same as the diary had been. Voldemort wouldn’t have done the same thing twice, he would have wanted his Horcruxes to be as original and extraordinary as he viewed himself to be. 

Tom made his way forward, slightly in the lead, but Anathema held his hand and stuck close against him. In Tom’s free hand hung a familiar black book, swaying lightly from the leather strap Tom gripped between his fingers but which had not been attached to the Horcrux as Harry knew it. When they reached the front door, Anathema took his hand back. As Tom’s hand was bared, Harry’s eyes narrowed in on the elaborate ring that covered one of the dark haired boy’s fingers from knuckle to knuckle. 

Anathema was watching the Resurrection Stone as well. A small smile played on his lips, and his fingers subconsciously traced the place on his hand where the ring should have sat, where it _would_ one day sit. 

“One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne,”2 Anathema breathed, smiling wider as Tom narrowed his eyes at the Muggle reference. 

“You may have it, Ana,” the young Voldemort said, “when I am done with it tonight. There is no need to taint the object with Tolkien’s nonsense.”

“And yet,” the green eyed boy bantered, “you recognize the work.” 

Tom knocked on the door, and they waited. “How do you plan to master the Elder Wand?” He asked so as to change the subject, and Anathema went along with it, knowing enough about Tom to know that he wouldn’t admit to having snuck a peak at Anathema’s Muggle books. 

“I’ll search for whoever possesses the wand,” he bared his teeth as he spoke, half grinning and half snarling, “and I’ll disarm them. I’ll destroy them,” he promised. Death wasn’t necessary, but Anathema chose not to inform Tom of that, Harry noticed. 

Harry supposed if it were him (well, it was him, in a sense) he’d want to know more about it than he’d want potential opponents to know. Voldemort had already taken the Wand from him, and the Stone, though the Cloak was an heirloom and safe from the Dark Lord for the time being. Perhaps the idea that he may have to murder his lover to possess the Wand had dissuaded Tom from interfering in Anathema’s Quest, and had kept the boy alive long enough to die of some other unfortunate cause. 

Anathema had never possessed the Wand. _Not until now_ , Harry thought, remembering the moment he had disarmed Draco Malfoy. Voldemort would have had no reason to kill him for it then. 

So who had? Harry considered that question as the door to Riddle Manor swung open and Frank, the butler, led the two teenagers inside. 

Harry watched, moving closer to the front door now that he was alone, and he waited. Three flashes of green light lit up the house from the inside, and Harry watched through narrowed eyes as Frank ran across the lawn, from wherever he had been, towards the back of the house. 

The Riddle family had been murdered in three flashes of green light. And two Horcruxes had been born. 

Harry’s eyes snapped open. He looked at the ceiling of his bedroom in Shell Cottage and imagined he could feel the weight of his ring on his finger. The moleskin pouch Hagrid had given him hung around his neck even as he slept, and silently he opened it and withdrew the golden snitch Dumbledore had left him in his will. 

“You open at the close,” Harry whispered to it, the golden ball pressed to his lips, “But the close of what?” 

**XXX**

That's all she wrote for now. I'll try remember to update soon!!! x


	9. Chapter 09

Yeah, so i forgot about this site again, sorry!

 

 **Words:** 3,809  
 **Chapter 9**  
March 27th 1998. 

Bill and Fleur had moved into a small cottage overlooking the sea after they had married. Shell Cottage was a beautiful place, but quiet and lonely. Wherever Harry went in the cottage he could hear the sea, but the walls were thick enough to drown out the noises of the other occupants. Harry made many excuses in the days that followed his escape from Malfoy Manor to avoid his friends and his house-mates. He much preferred to sit outside, with his legs dangling off of the shell-embedded cliff, and think in silence; the only noise the ebbing of the tide, slightly softer than the sound of Ron’s snoring. 

Sometimes he thought about the Elder Wand, and whether or not Dumbledore had meant for him to get it. Hermione, once she had decided it was real, had insisted that Harry could never have broken into Dumbledore’s tomb for it, but Harry knew deep down that he could have, would have in fact, but should he have? Was that what Dumbledore wanted? Or had the man taken the Wand to his grave purposely, knowing then that Harry would never be its Master? 

Other times he thought about Anathema. 

It was one of those times, where he was thinking back on his life, on the life of a dead boy, when Hermione came outside and sat beside him. 

“What do you think about when you’re out here alone, Harry?” She asked him, her voice small and her hands twisting in her lap. “You’ve been acting strangely since… well, you know.”

“Since I learnt full-body transfiguration in less than a minute? Yeah,” he sighed, “I can see why you’d think that was strange.” Hermione let out a little huff, but when she looked over Harry was smiling teasingly in her direction, half his mouth lifted and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course, Harry,” she said without pause. 

“Well… mostly I just want to talk, and for you to listen. It’s not really a question, there’s not much I want to ask, but will you listen?”

Hermione nodded slowly, reaching out with one hand to squeeze Harry’s arm lightly. “I’m listening,” she whispered. 

“It started just before sixth year. I started having these dreams, and at first I didn’t think anything of them, because I thought maybe Voldemort was dreaming and I was being pulled in accidentally. But when Voldemort dreams, the dreams are different. I’ve had so many that I can tell the difference now. Voldemort didn’t start dreaming until the middle of sixth year. Around the time Professor Dumbledore started those lessons with me. The dreams have gotten more and more frequent as the Horcruxes are destroyed.” He paused, running his hands over his trouser legs to wipe off the sweat. Harry swallowed nervously and cleared his throat. “There’s a boy in my dreams. He dies, eventually, but I don’t know how yet, I haven’t dreamt that far ahead. Tom Riddle is fascinated with him.”

Hermione gave a breathless laugh. “That poor, unfortunate boy,” she murmured, lowering her eyes out of pity. 

“He used to be able to turn into a Grim too, and he looked just as I did. I can cast some of the same spells I’ve seen him casting as well, you know. I thought it was a coincidence at first, but it’s happened a lot! Even in Charms class last year, I don’t think I would have done as well if I hadn’t been dreaming about this boy!”

Hermione frowned, nibbling on her lower lip as she thought. Harry watched her in silence, his mind swirling with all of the other things that he could tell her, things he should tell her. But he wouldn’t. Not until he knew how Anathema’s story ended, not until he knew how he had died. 

“It sounds like you’ve, that is the boy who Riddle was interested in, had been reincarnated. Do you know what that is?” Harry refrained from rolling his eyes; instead he simply nodded his head and waited. “Do you know who he was, Harry? The boy, I mean? Who was he to Riddle, who did he grow up to be, how is it you came to be here?”

“He dies, Hermione, but I don’t know the answer to any of those questions,” Harry said, lying and not feeling guilty for doing so. Hermione didn’t need to know that he had loved Voldemort more than was healthy, nor did she need to know that Voldemort had loved him back as much as he was able. Harry needed to know that, Harry and Anathema, and Voldemort, alone. It was their secret only. No one else needed to know. “I was wondering if you would help me figure out who I used to be. It might help us stop Vo- Tom,” he broke off abruptly, replacing the self-appointed title with the man’s real name. “Do you think Dumbledore would have wanted me to take the Wand?”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, probably to chastise him for even thinking about desecrating the dead man’s grave, but then someone was calling his name. 

Harry turned his head and smiled at Ron who was waving at them from the entrance to the cottage. His ginger hair was blowing in the sea breeze and his cheeks were red from the spring chill, but he was grinning wildly, not at all as he had been for the weeks that the Locket had been their mutual burden. Harry found that he had rather missed this Ronald, the friendly one, the one who was family. 

“Fleur says dinner is ready, and if you both don’t come inside and eat it, then the Goblin will have it all gone.” Harry was the first to his feet. The night before, Griphook actually had eaten enough food to feed the three of them, and Harry had been the only one not to make it to the table in time. He wasn’t going to miss out on Fleur’s cooking again tonight: it was almost as good as Mrs Weasley’s! 

“Harry!” Hermione hissed, standing up as well. She followed him towards Ron, and the cottage. Ron didn’t know that Harry now had an animagus form, nor had he been told the full story of how Harry and Hermione had been rescued. He had been taken from the dungeons, with Luna, Griphook and Dean, by Dobby and then the elf had gone back for the Boy-Who-Lived. “I won’t say anything to Ron,” was all Hermione said when Harry stopped and turned back to her. 

“Thank you,” he mouthed, pressing a hand against her arm for a second. Laughing, he and Ron headed inside and helped themselves to some food. Hermione watched them from the doorway, hungry for food as well as more information. She stared at Harry, noting that no matter whose life he was living, Harry continued to fascinate Tom Riddle. 

“Eat, ’Ermione,” Fleur chuckled, “before everything is gone.” 

Hermione took the offered plate with a smile, moving to sit at the table, but her eyes were on Harry still. ‘Anathema’ was what they had called him at Malfoy Manor, and what Harry had called himself in front of the Snatchers. Originally she thought it meant something that only purebloods would have known, a catchphrase or password of sorts, but now, now it was glaringly obvious that ‘anathema’ was not only a denunciating noun, but a name! Harry’s name… 

_Anathema Black_ , she thought as she took her seat, _who were you_?

 _XXX_

March 30th 1998. 

“’Arry,” called Fleur in her strong French accent. 

Harry turned around, pulling his legs back up over the cliff’s edge, and he smiled widely at the part-Veela woman. 

“Grip’ook would like to speak to you. ’E eez in ze smallest bedroom, ’e says ’e does not want to be over ’eard.”

He nodded his thanks to her as he stood, dusting down his trousers. With hesitant steps, Harry made his way back into the cottage. He had Bellatrix’s wand, and Hermione had somehow managed to snag a chunk of her hair as they struggled at Malfoy Manor, and Bill had somehow found them enough Polyjuice Potion for all three teenagers. But they still had no way of getting inside of Gringotts. The bank was well protected, and even while pretending to be the owner of a bank vault, there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t be caught and trapped or kill. But Griphook had worked there, he knew the ins and outs of the bank, where all of the traps were and which vaults required blood identification. If Griphook would agree to help them, breaking into Bellatrix’s vault would be almost plain sailing. 

But… giving up his Sword? Was he able to do that? 

It was his sword. Voldemort had tried to take it for him, to use it for him, and had tried to take it for himself once he had no longer been around. No, that wasn’t right. That was wrong. It had all been for Anathema. Harry wasn’t that boy. That boy was dead, though Merlin only knew how at this point, and did Harry really want to hang onto something that was obviously so important to the man who had murdered Harry’s parents? Was he really going to continue coveting something that a murderer too had coveted once? 

Harry stood before Griphook, looking down on the injured Goblin, and he frowned. 

Ron and Hermione were talking, planning and probably plotting, but Harry was still thinking. “We’ll give him the fake,” Ron suggested, hand covering his mouth so that Griphook couldn’t make out what he was saying. 

Hermione looked scandalized. But Harry smiled. He could keep his sword; hide it in his own vault while they were there, maybe? He wouldn’t have to keep it on him then, but at least no one else would have it. It might not have been Godric Gryffindor’s sword before it was a Goblin’s, but it had been Anathema’s before it had been _this_ Goblin’s, and Harry vowed it would remain that way. 

“We can tell him he can have the sword after he’s helped us,” Harry whispered, “but we’ll just not tell him when afterwards he can have it.” Ron was grinning in agreement, but Hermione was narrowing her eyes at him. “We need it to destroy the Horcruxes. He can have it after.”

“But that could be years!” She hissed. 

“He needn’t know that,” both boys said together, grinning from ear to ear. _For the greater good_ , his mind whispered to him, and Harry defiantly pushed away the tingling of shame that was beginning in the pit of his stomach. “I won’t be lying… really.” 

Harry shook hands with the Goblin, promising him the real sword, but in his mind he imagined himself handing over the fake, escaping with his sword, keeping it for himself, and he felt his stomach roll. “So! We begin!” Griphook said, clapping his hands together once, and settling back against the headboard of his bed. 

Harry pushed away the shame and disgust that grew within him, ignoring it and focusing on the task of planning their break-in. Anathema’s sword was more important that a promise to a Goblin, than a promise to anyone really, and he kept that thought in mind as Griphook described his only visit to the Lestrange vault. 

The plan would take a while to put into motion, Harry knew. There would be problems and complications and Hermione’s perfectionist attitude to overcome. But they would get it done. They would destroy another Horcrux and Harry would betray their new (well not really friend) associate, but it would be for the Greater Good, as much as he disliked the idea of it. 

The memory of those words written above the gates of Nurmengard flashed through his mind, and he flinched. 

But what choice did he have? 

_XXX_

March 1934.

_It was cold and wet outside, the wind was howling loudly, and Anathema was once again at the mercy of his family. He had been playing outside with Orion, and somehow while Orion had managed to remain clean despite being five and filled with the need to get into every speck of dirt in existence, Anathema was the one covered head to foot with mud and rain water. Lucretia hadn’t bothered casting any charms on him before he went out of the house, but she had for her younger, full-brother, and now she stood smugly beside her mother and father as they screamed into the seven-year-old’s pale face._

_Anathema listen in silence, standing up straight with his eyes lowered. He appeared almost unbothered by the vitriol that was being hurled towards him, but he had heard enough of it over the past four years that now it was simply something he had grown accustomed too. He nodded his head in all of the right places, and he never looked up at Arcturus until the man had finally finished speaking._

_“Sorry father,” he whispered, watching the man’s mouth instead of his eyes._

_A wand was against his cheek, the tip glowing the same colour as Anathema’s eyes, and the boy flinched despite receiving this same threat at least once a week. “You are a disgrace,” his father hissed. “I should have killed you the day I found out you existed.”_

__Why didn’t you _? Anathema questioned with his eyes, but the only answer he received was a slap across the face. Arcturus tucked his wand away, and only after his wife urged him away from the half-blood did he leave the room._

_Lucretia and Melania scowled towards him, but Orion sniffled in sympathy, too young to help but old enough to understand that Anathema needed help of a kind he didn’t understand yet._

_“Why not just let father kill him?” Lucretia asked her mother, scowling at her younger brothers. Both of them were irksome, as far as she was concerned. One was little better than a Mudblood and the other would grow to usurp her place as the Black heir, just because he had a penis._

_Melania glared at her daughter. She scolded her lightly, only half meaning her words; the shame it would bring on the family, the trouble it would cause with the Ministry, the problems the Aurors would make for their family, imagine the horrible things the papers would write. But never once did she imply that anyone would miss lonely Anathema._

_The boy backed out of the room, his cheek stinging, and his eyes bright with tears that would not fall until he was completely alone. But he was never completely alone! The portraits followed him with their painted eyes, cursing his name and his presence, and his little brother trailed along behind him like a loyal dog, black hair bouncing around his shoulders and blue-grey eyes wide and fearful._

_“Do you want a hug, Ana?” Orion asked as Anathema locked his bedroom door._

_“Yes please,” he whispered back, opening his arms and holding them out to the only person who cared if he lived or died._

_Anathema cried himself to sleep that night. It was another thing he had grown accustomed to since his mother’s murder and his own kidnapping. Orion stayed with him for the whole night, holding him and hugging him, pudgy hands wiping the tears from his face, and Anathema smiled softly in his sleep as Orion told him he loved him._

_XXX_

January 7th 1995.

_Harry slammed the bedroom door shut. He threw himself down sideways on his bed, pulling the pillow towards him so that he could bury his face in its softness and hide his tears._

_The Order members were supposed to be on his side. And yet they were sitting around his godfather’s table discussing whether or not Harry was insane! Voldemort_ was _back, he was. Harry had seen him, fought him, rescued the body of the boy killed by him, and yet he was doubted, slandered. Was it not bad enough that most of the world despised him, but now people who trusted Dumbledore and who should have been Harry friends, doubted him too? It wasn’t fair. This was his house, his sanctuary, and these people were ruining his new year!_

_There was a soft knock on the door, and Harry turned his face to the side long enough to mumble, “What?” before hiding his tears away once more._

_“Oh kiddo!” Sirius breathed, as he entered the room, stopping to lock the door behind him. His black hair curled and bounced around his shoulders, and his blue-grey eyes looked down on his godson with sympathy and love. “Don’t listen to a word they say, Prongslet.” He sat beside Harry on the bed, and held his arms out. “Would you like a hug?”_

_“Yes please,” Harry mumbled softly. He sat up, wiped his face on his sleeve and leant into his Godfather’s embrace. This was the only person in the world who was family. The only living relative Harry had who cared whether he lived or died, and as much as he loved Ron and Hermione, he needed Sirius Black so much more. Harry clung to his godfather, his face against the man’s neck._

_There was something familiar about hugging his godfather, but something wrong about it too. Harry was hit with a startling realization that he should be the elder Wizard in the circumstances, but that couldn’t be right. How could he ever possibly be older than his godfather? It couldn’t happen. And there was no one else who had hugged him like this to compare the moment to, so it couldn’t be déjà vu either. Harry shoved the thought viciously away._

_It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter._

_Sirius was here, with him. Sirius loved him and was comforting him, and it didn’t matter whether Harry might have dreamt of doing this with someone else (James Potter perhaps?) because right then it was Sirius Harry had. He wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was Sirius._

_XXX_

April 8th 1998. 

They were gathered around the table in the kitchen of Shell Cottage, listening to Bill talk about work and what he had heard of their friends. The fire was burning; despite it being April and having warmed up considerably since March, it was still chilly at nights and during the evenings. Fleur preferred the cottage to be toasty at any rate, and for her guests to be full and relaxed. 

They were full and warm admittedly, but they were anything but relaxed when someone started banging loudly at the front door. Bill and Fleur turned towards the door. Griphook slid underneath the table. Hermione, Ron and Harry pointed their wands forward, prepared to defend Luna who was watching them all with a soft smile on her face. 

“It is I, Remus John Lupin,” a familiar voice called from behind the door. The knocking stopped, but they could easily make out the words despite the wind. “I am a werewolf, married to Nymphandora Tonks and…” Bill pulled the door open, and Remus smiled softly at him. 

“Come on in, Lupin.” 

“It’s a boy,” he said, pulling off his travelling cloak. His grey hair was windswept and his face was pale but he was smiling so widely that there could be no mistaking that his new was good news. “We named him Ted, after Dora’s father.”

“What?” Hermione shrieked, “Tonks had the baby?”

Once Remus affirmed it, everyone began talking over one another. They congratulated him, bless the child, asked after he’s health and his mother’s, and Griphook slid out from under the table while Ron whispered, “a baby,” as if he had never heard of it before. 

Harry smiled widely at the last living person to link him to his own family. The man wasn’t as close to him as Sirius had been, but that was because there had been something inherently familiar about Sirius that pulled at his soul, begging for a relationship. Remus was a good man though, a kind man who deserved to be happy, and Harry was happy for him. His hand fluttered against his stomach, and wave of melancholy washed over him for just a second, saddening him, and then it was gone. In its place was a photo of the new-born baby, held towards him by Remus, just before he was crushed against the werewolf in a hug. 

“You’ll be godfather?” He asked, after releasing Harry. 

“Me?” Harry questioned, his voice shaking. There was something wrong with that title. There wasn’t supposed to be a word in front of ‘father’, but that was a ridiculous thought. This baby was Remus’; Harry was not the father. 

Harry took the photo from Remus’ hand, running his fingers over the scrunched up face of baby Teddy Lupin as tears came to his eyes. He agreed, of course he agreed, but as he spoke the accepting words his eyes were fixated on the moving photograph. Remus accepted a glass of wine from Fleur, and Bill offered him some food and shoved him towards an empty seat beside the fireplace. They talked and toasted, and Remus unwillingly admitted that he couldn’t stay long, though he did accept a second glass of wine. 

“Who does he look like?” Someone asked, trying to glance at the photo Harry would not pass around. 

“To Teddy Lupin!” They cheered, Ron finally managing to tug the photo from Harry’s grip. 

“I think he looks like Dora,” somebody else spoke softly, eyeing the picture. 

Harry closed his eyes, and there Anathema was, smiling with bright green eyes his hands on his stomach. And then there was the Locket Horcrux, screaming at him, “I loved you. Why would you want to kill me, Tom? We’re having a baby,” all the while looking like Anathema, stomach bloated with an unborn child. Harry’s eyes snapped open, banishing the memory, blinking it away as if it were nothing more than a bad dream. The Horcrux lied, he reminded himself. It had lied about a lot of things. 

“Congratulations,” Harry whispered as Remus finally made his way out of the front door. He was wobbling slightly, probably due to the two extra glasses of wine he had ingested while Harry had been lost in thought, but they hugged tightly, and Remus promised him more photos in a few days. 

“See you soon, Godfather Harry!” Remus chuckled, and apparated with a crack. 

“Godfather,” Harry whispered. His hand was against his stomach again, and he was thinking once more of Anathema. Dead, damned, (pregnant?) Anathema Black; did he have any children? Harry wondered. He silently let himself back into the house, snatching up the photograph of Teddy where it had been left abandoned on a chair, and he stared down at it longingly. Would he have any children? 

_Had_ he had any children? 

**XXX**


	10. Chapter 10

**Words:** 7,533  
 **Chapter 10**  
May 1st 1998.

Diagon Alley was partially deserted. A handful of people were huddled up in doorways or between shops, hoods pulled up over their faces as they begged piteously for gold. “I am a witch, I really am,” one called to them as they passed by. 

Harry and Griphook were hidden beneath the Invisibility cloak, both frowning at the dirty, pleading Muggleborns. Ron, whose face had been transfigured until he was unrecognizable, looked aghast. His mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t seem to speak. Instead he shot Hermione a confused look. 

Bellatrix Lestrange turned towards him, her lips pursed. As the beggars caught sight of her, they all seemed to melt back into the shadows, cowering and hiding from the infamous Death Eater. Hermione backed up as one man leapt towards her. 

“My children!” he cried, “What has he done with my children? You know! You know!” The man looked horrible, Harry noted, wild and terrified, and his hands were curled into claws aiming for Hermione’s throat. Ron raised his wand, and a jet of red light knocked the Wizard to the floor, unconscious.

“Why Madame Lestrange!” Another Wizard called, and the group turned simultaneously to face the new comer. 

He was dressed in rich looking clothes, clean and proud looking. Death Eater, Harry’s mind supplied, as he recognized the voice as one of the attackers Xenophilius had summoned. “Travers,” Griphook whispered against his head, “he’s another Death Eater.”

“I’m surprised to see you out and about, Bellatrix. I heard that the inhabitants of Malfoy Manor were confined to the house after the, well, escape.”

Hermione drew herself up, looking down her nose at the man. Harry willed her to keep calm. If Bellatrix really had been grounded and Hermione slipped up now, the whole plan was ruined. But this was Hermione he was talking about. She very rarely panicked these days. “The Dark Lord forgives those who have served him most faithfully in the past. Perhaps your credit is not as good with him as mine, Travers?” She drawled, almost sneering at him. 

Despite knowing that she was Hermione, Harry was almost fooled. The heavy lidded eyes, the pale face, and pouting mouth, her stature, were all because of the Polyjuice potion. But the way Hermione had just spoken was all her, and it was shocking like Bellatrix. Harry flinched at the thought, imagining kind, logical Hermione as the murderer of Sirius Black. Her face and her wand and Bellatrix’s words, and it was a horrifying thought. Could Hermione ever become like him, Harry wondered? Would she wake up one morning and start casting Dark spells on Death Eaters, start agreeing with how Voldemort viewed Muggles, and start wanting to know more about the Dark Lord? No. She wouldn’t. She was a good person.

So what did that make him, then? Was it Anathema, he wondered? Were the memories of the dead boy affecting his own feelings and thoughts? He didn’t love Voldemort, but now he didn’t hate him either. There was only pity. And curiosity. Or maybe these were his own feelings. Maybe he was meant to care for Voldemort before the end; after all hadn’t Dumbledore told him his ability to love was the power which the Dark Lord knew not? Harry frowned, reaching up to scratch his chin. Maybe he was meant to help heal Voldemort, not kill him. ‘Defeat’ could be interpreted in many ways after all; it didn’t necessarily mean kill. But would Voldemort listen to him? Regardless of whether he used to be Anathema Black, he was Harry Potter now, and Voldemort had spent over a decade trying to kill him. Why stop now? 

“They are leaving,” Griphook hissed, arms tightening around Harry’s neck. 

Harry looked up, shaking away his thoughts and scowled as he noticed Ron and Hermione walking towards Gringotts with Travers. They seemed to have picked up a companion, but it wouldn’t really matter, Harry hoped. They’d lose him inside of the bank. 

Harry raised Draco’s wand and cast two confusion charms in quick succession. The guards at the doors, who had replaced the liveried Goblins, looked confused and raised their Probity Probes a second time. 

“You’ve already done that!” Travers told one of them, as Hermione made sure to look very offended. 

Harry slipped past, tugging Ron with him. The golden rods the guards were holding lifted concealment charms, and the two Wizards and the Goblin snuck inside while the guards apologized to the Death Eaters. Harry looked around with wide eyes. He remembered the first time he had come here. He remembered standing beside Hagrid, looking around in awe as the half-giant told him, “yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it”. And here Harry was, surrounded by his two best friends and the Goblin they were planning to betray. 

They were about to try and rob Gringotts.

The Goblin who greeted them from behind the large marble counter was trembling as he looked down from the dais at Bellatrix. Hermione looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “Identification?” She cried, as the Goblin asked her to prove who she was. “I- I have never been asked for identification before!”

“They know,” Griphook whispered, sounding terrified. 

The Goblin behind the counter reached forth a trembling hand. “You’re wand will do, madam.” 

Hermione’s hand slipped into her pocket, fingers curling around the stolen walnut wand, but before she could reveal it, Harry raised Draco’s wand again. He suddenly realized that the Goblin’s had been warned that Bellatrix’s wand had been stolen. With Travers there it was too risky (not that they weren’t taking a huge risk already) to fight the Goblin’s, or to be exposed. But Harry was hidden under the cloak. The Goblin’s didn’t know that he was there and they wouldn’t be expecting for him to attack them. 

“ _Imperio_ ,” he cast in a whisper, the wand pointed at the Goblin’s face. The strangest feeling swam through his body as he cast the spell; it started as a tingling in his chest, changing as it moved along his arm into a slight burning sensation, then burst from his fingers as a jet of bright light that made the hairs on his wand arm stand on end. 

The Goblin gasped as Hermione handed him the wand. “Oh you’ve had a new wand made, I see.”

Hermione stammered a denial, but then Travers was there, reaching out for her wand and speaking over her. “A new wand?” He asked, “but how could you have done, which wandmaker did you use?”

“ _Imperio_ ,” Harry cast again. The feeling spread through him again, but this time it was less intense. Travers gave a nod and a grin, complimenting the beauty of this new wand and while Hermione looked completely bewildered she took the strange conversation in stride. Though she did turn around and glare at where she thought Harry might have been standing. 

At her other side, Ron gave her a pointed look. Hermione nodded, turning her attention back to the Goblin and cleared her throat.

“If you will follow me, madam Lestrange,” the Goblins said, clapping his hands together. A younger Goblin approached them, handed over a leather bag that jingled, and dashed away again. “I will take you to your vault.” 

Another Goblin tried to stop them, calling after “Bogrod”, who was still under the _Imperious_ and as such was still adamant on taking them all down to the Lestrange vault. “Bogrod!” The other Goblin called again, “we have instructions!”

“I’m aware of the instructions,” Bogrod said dismissively. “Madame Lestrange, this way please.” 

Travers remained where he was, staring at the marble counter with his mouth hanging open. Harry glanced back at him, and at the younger Goblin, before following Hermione and Ron deeper into the bank. Harry had already stepped out of the entrance room and into the stone hallways that were lit up with torches hanging from the walls, when he made his decision. Travers was too conspicuous looking, and so with a flick of Harry’s wand, Travers began walking in their direction. 

Once the door had closed behind them all, Harry pulled off the cloak and allowed Griphook to jump down off his back. “They’re Imperiused,” Harry told his friends as neither Bogrod nor Travers reacted to the unveiling of Harry Potter. “I don’t think I cast it strongly enough though.” He glanced back at the way they had come, a frown on his face. “The Goblins suspect us!”

“What do we do?” Ron asked, ignoring the issue of Harry having cast an Unforgivable. 

Hermione, however, was watching him closely, wondering if he had learnt this spell from Anathema too, or if he had actually practised it with the intent to one day use it. He had used the _Cruciatus_ before, after all, so it wasn’t such a leap to assume that Harry would try one of the others, was it? 

“Should we get out now?” Ron asked.

“If we can,” Hermione answered, eyes narrowed. She knew Harry wouldn’t agree with her, and she was right. So while Hermione helped the two Goblins into the cart, Harry cast the Unforgivable on Travers again and ordered him to hide. Once they were all seated in the cart, Bogrod reached forward to touch the front of the metal car, and with a jerk they began to move forward. 

They were deeper into the bank than Harry had ever been. Much deeper. It was cold down there, and so very still, as if nothing was alive here, not even the air. The walls were stone, and damp, and there was moss growing in patches though it was inconceivable to imagine that sunlight could penetrate this far underground. Loud noises and flashes of light startled them at one point as they round a bend at terrifying speed and Harry briefly recalled the rumours that there were dragons locked within the bowels of Gringotts. A waterfall appeared before them, cutting through the tracks, and with a cry from Griphook they flew through the water, landing safely on the other side.

“Cushioning charm,” Hermione told them, panting. She was dripping wet, wearing robes that were too big for her, and she once again look like herself. Ron, too, was himself, stroking his beardless chin while gaping in horror. 

“They know,” Griphook breathed. “They’ve activated the defences against us.” Griphook pointed at the other Goblin, who was shaking his head and looking rather disorientated. Apparently, the defences, the Thief’s Downfall, had cancelled out the _Imperious_ as well as their disguises. “We need a Gringotts Goblin, and the Clankers,” Griphook told them, looking frenzied. 

“ _Imperio_ ,” Harry said again, and this time he felt nothing unusual from casting the spell. He was, it seemed, growing used to it. 

Bogrod submitted easily to his will, the confusion on his face melting away to be replaced by polite indifference, and Harry waved his wand again. The Goblin began to move, and they followed him. 

“ _Protego_ ,” Hermione called out, Bellatrix’s wand pointed behind them. The spell shot through the waterfall, and the sound of footsteps faded away. 

“How are we going to get out of here?” Ron asked as they kept walking further and further away from the exit to the bank.

“We’ll worry about that when we have to,” Harry said, trying to sound calmer than he was. Inside, he was in turmoil. He was worried about being caught. If they were taken back to Malfoy Manor there wouldn’t be a second escape. Dobby was dead now, and no doubt the Death Eaters would be more cautious this time. He was worried about these Goblin defences. Would they hurt him, hurt his friends? Would it kill them? No, he thought, Voldemort would kill them himself. The Goblins might torture them a little first before they handed them to the Dark Lord, Harry mused, remembering that Goblin’s really didn’t like to be robbed. He was also worried about not getting the Horcrux. The more they destroyed, the more of Voldemort’s soul they returned to him, the faster the dreams came. He was seeing more of Anathema now than he had been the year before; they were more detailed, more intimate. But he had yet to see how Anathema died. 

There were only three Horcruxes left, by their estimate. Nagini, whatever was in the vault, and one other one: when they were all gone, surely Harry would learn how he had died? Then he’d need to learn how to avoid meeting that fate for a second time. 

A growl interrupted his thoughts, and Harry looked up with wide eyes at the sight of a pale white dragon. It lay in front of the door to the Lestrange vault, its eyes unseeing, but its nostrils flared and it raised its head with a roar. Now, Harry had to worry about a dragon, on top of everything else. 

_XXX_

“It’s up there! Up there!” Someone cried.

Harry looked up, following the pointing finger and frowned. “How are we going to reach it? If we climb anything we touch will multiply!” Ron was still hoping on one foot, the front of his shoe burnt away by a spell. Griphook was mumbling under his breath and Harry snarled at him, “If you want the Sword you need to help us! How do we get up there?”

“The Sword can touch it without activating the curses.” The Goblin said, eyes flicking around the vault nervously. Several of the objects had already multiplied, and the group was trying hard to avoid being touched by any of them. Bogrod stood quietly, still Imperiused, waiting for instruction. 

“If you could reach, you could poke the tip of the sword through the handle,” Hermione told him, brandishing her wand. The shelf was higher than even Ron could reach, and as Harry opened his mouth to ask whether he should try jumping, she cast a spell on him. “ _Levicorpus_ ,” she said. He was lifted into the air by his ankle, and as he floated, his flailed. Arms struck off of objects and as they fell they knocked down other pieces of gold and jewellery. Each item multiplied by twenty, and Ron and Hermione cried as they pulled each other and Bogrod out of the way of the coming avalanche. Griphook screamed, a horrible, desperate sound, and when Harry looked down all he could see were the tips of the creature’s fingers poking up from a sea of cursed gold. Hermione and Ron were floating too, holding the older Goblin between them. 

Harry reached down, his fingers catching the Goblin’s and he tugged. The blistered creature broke free of the gold and he cried out as he climbed onto Harry’s back. 

“Where’s the sword?” Harry yelled. He had gotten the cup onto it before Griphook had screamed. As Hermione was distracted, her spell dashed Harry to one side and back and he had let go of the sword. He needed to find that Sword. He needed it. It was his Horcrux… no… it wasn’t. Harry shook his head, forcing away those thoughts, and said, “Where’s the cup? It was hanging off the sword!”

“There!” Griphook had seen it. And it was Griphook who dived towards it. He must have known that the Wizards would betray him! As his hand closed around the hilt, Harry’s vision blurred. There was no vault, no burning mountains of gold, no Griphook. There was only the Sword, and someone else’s hand touching it, taking it. Hufflepuff’s cup flung up into the air as Griphook raised the Sword above their heads. Ron managed to catch it, hissing loudly as it burnt his skin, but he held on tight. 

“Harry! Make Bogrod open the door!” Hermione cried, floating the three of them towards it. 

Harry, though, wasn’t listening. He reached behind his head, hands grabbing the Goblin and he pulled, tugging the creature from his back. 

“It’s mine!” He snarled, enunciating the ‘s’. It wasn’t Parseltongue, but it was close enough that Griphook flinched. Harry shook him, overcome by the maddening need to steal back the sword and punish the person who would dare take it from him. This was Anathema’s never-Horcrux, it would have been Voldemort’s if not for Dumbledore’s intervention: it belonged to Harry. Griphook struggled, kicking and punching, and one of his feet connected with Harry’s groin. The boy let out a strangled cry, letting go so that he could cup his injured privates instead. Unfortunately, for Griphook, this had the result of Harry dropping him into the sea of cursed objects that burned and blistered as Griphook screamed, sinking beneath them. Harry ignored him, he didn’t reach down to help him a second time. Instead, Harry reached out for the sword, gasping from the pain in his balls, but just as his fingers skimmed the edge of the blade, the door to the vault slid open. Like a tsunami, the objects flooded out of the vault and into the outer chamber, crashing against the walls with echoing noises. Ron, Hermione and Harry were pulled along with the currant. 

Bogrod lay dazed on the floor, and close by Griphook was slumped unmoving. The three Wizards raised their wands. “ _Expelliarmus_!” They cried simultaneously, pointing their wands at the semi-circle of Goblin’s who peered down at them, armed and angry. “ _Stupefy_!” 

Wizard guards came running around the corner, wands raised. With a roar from the bound dragon, a jet of flames flew over the heads of the Goblins, sending the Wizards scurrying back around the corner to hide. Harry wasn’t sure what came over him, whether it was the stress of that morning’s adventure, the despair over losing the sword, or guilt because of the lack of remorse he felt over killing Griphook, or maybe just temporary insanity, but he suddenly had a plan. 

“ _Relashio_!” 

The chains holding the dragon fell away. The creature had not yet realized it was free, and it continued to stand where it was, growling threateningly. “Come on,” Harry yelled, running towards the dragon. 

“Harry! Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione cried, even as she pulled Ron along behind her. Harry climbed up the dragon’s side, its scales were hard and cold but they acted like groves in the side of a cliff, and Harry fitted his hands and his feet in and on them. He used them to pull himself up, until he was sitting behind the dragon’s neck, clinging on tightly. The creature didn’t seem to notice him. Hermione pulled herself up next, followed by Ron, and just as the redhead wiggled into a comfortable position the dragon realized it was free. 

It spread its wings, shook its head, and darted forward. The Goblins scattered, throwing themselves to the floor. The Wizards screamed, shooting spells that had no effect. Harry watched as the Goblins picked themselves up, reaching for the clankers and shaking them. The dragon roared again, its head butting against the ceiling, scratching and clawing. 

“It’s not going to fit!” Ron screamed. They were pressed flat to its back, their own backs scrapping off of the roof, and they gasped as the dragon raised itself higher, nearly crushing them as it tried to force its way free. 

“ _Defodio_ ,” Hermione screamed, pointing her wand at the roof. Rocks fell on top of them, the walls shook. The dragon roared again, encouraged, and together the two of them worked to get free of the underground prison. Harry and Ron joined in, repeating the same spell over and over, exploding curses, bombarda hexes, everything they could think of, until at last there was a hole large enough to fit through. The dragon’s brute strength and Hermione’s quick thinking combined had allowed them to escape, and the dragon took one step and then another into the marble entrance hall of Gringotts.

People screamed. Goblins and Wizards ran for cover. 

The dragon stretched its wings, throwing its head from side to side as it enjoyed the feeling of freedom. Then, with the three unnoticed teenagers on its back, the dragon charged across the room, throwing itself at the metal doors. They buckled under its weight. All four of them emerged into Diagon Alley, and then they took to the air. 

_XXX_

As the burning, throbbing pain in his scar ebbed away, Harry looked up at his friends with wide eyes. “He knows,” Harry said. His friends huddled closer to him, glancing around suspiciously. But their only witness was the half-blind dragon who was still sitting on the opposite side of the lake they had landed in. “He knows, and he’s going to check where the others are. I was right,” he said, half gloating, feeling a little bit smug, “the last one is at Hogwarts. I _knew_ it.”

Ron gaped at him, “what?” 

“I was in his head. He knows, he’s angry and scared, he can’t understand how we found out. He thinks the one at Hogwarts is the safest, because Snape is there, because we can’t get in.” Harry scrambled to his feet, followed by Ron. They pulled the invisibility cloak free of Harry’s sodden shirt, and shook it out. 

“WAIT!” Hermione cried. “We can’t just go! We haven’t got a plan, we need to-”

“We need to get going,” Harry told them decisively. “Imagine what he’ll do when he finds the ring and the locket gone. He might move the Hogwarts Horcrux, and then we’ll never find it. Get under the cloak,” he told them, already pulling the fabric around his own shoulders. 

“How are we going to get inside?” 

“We’ll go to Hogsmeade. Figure it out once we see what the protection is like.” They huddled together, thankful that it was getting dark because they didn’t quite fit anymore and people would have been able to see their disembodied feet during the day. Together they turned on the spot. And appeared in Hogsmeade. 

A shrieking alarm pierced the air. Death Eaters apparated around them. Dementors appeared out of the darkness, floating like shadows towards them, sucking all of the happiness out of those they passed. Harry raised his wand, and whispered, “ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” and the Dementors scattered. 

“I saw it. I saw his Patronus!” Someone shouted, “He’s over here!”

Footsteps hurried towards them. Hermione, Ron and Harry scrambled backwards, still hidden under the cloak that had refused to be summoned away, and they cast panicked looks around the narrow alleyway they were trapped in. They couldn’t disapparated. There were too many of them to fight. 

“Quick, Potter, in here,” someone hissed from behind them. A door had appeared in the wall, and gnarled hands reached out to pull the three of them inside. “Upstairs,” he told them, “keep the cloak on!”

They obeyed silently, huddling together and running up the rickety staircase. The talk figure waved his wand out of the doorway at the approaching Death Eaters. “Send Dementors down my street!” He shouted. “I’ll cast a Patronus! So what? I’ve told you, I’m not having them near me!”

“It wasn’t your Patronus,” one Death Eater insisted. “It was a stag.”

“A stag?” The Hogshead bar man laughed, “It’s a goat, fool.” He cast the charm again, and something large and horned shot out of the end of his wand. It pranced up the alley and then disappeared. 

“You set off the Caterwauling Charm?” Another Death Eater asked. 

“If I want to put my cat out, I will. What? You gonna arrest me for sticking my nose out of my own front door?” The man narrowed his eyes at them, wand held loosely in his hand. 

“Right. Still say I saw a stag,” the first Death Eater mumbled. 

A third shook his head. “We’ll let you off this once. But stick to curfew next time!” 

The Death Eaters left. Harry pulled back from the window he was spying out of. He could hear the barman moving around downstairs, bolting the door, and pushing something up against it. On the mantel piece sat a small mirror, beneath a portrait of a young blond girl who looked strangely familiar. 

The man walked back into the room, and Harry looked him over as his friends thanked him. Something about this man was familiar. Had he been at the Hogshead when Anathema was alive? Perhaps they had known each other then? He had known Albus after all, and the man looked about the same age as the Headmaster. He also had the same blue eyes. 

“It was you I saw in the mirror, your eyes. You sent Dobby to us!” Harry exclaimed. “You’re Aberforth,” he whispered, though the man didn’t deny or confirm the comment. 

“The silver doe,” Ron gasped. “Was the doe Patronus you too?”

“Brains like that and you could be a Death Eater,” the old man said with a chuckle, “didn’t I just prove my Patronus was a goat?” 

Ron flushed, complained of being hungry as if that was an excuse for stupidness and while Aberforth went to make something to eat, Harry looked around the room. The only picture was of the blond girl, there were no photos of Albus or their parents. “Is that Ariana?” Hermione asked. 

Before Aberforth could answer, Harry stepped forward. His hand pressed to the painting. “She was killed,” he whispered, his free hand on his stomach. “Why would anyone kill a child?” 

Food was placed onto the small table in the centre of the room. Aberforth floated a pot of tea behind him. “I don’t know,” he answered quietly. His eyes were on Harry, who was pale and swallowing heavily and Aberforth felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Hadn’t he had a similar conversation with Albus, one of the only times they had talked civilly since Ariana’s murder? Albus had apologized for his part in her death, for the accident. Aberforth had listened silently, reading the _Daily Prophet_ , and he had handed it over to Albus when he was done. 

Anathema’s photo covered the front page. 

Albus had asked him, “Do you think, if Ariana was my child, I still would have been able to kill her?” 

“Why would anyone kill a child?” Aberforth had asked. Albus said he hadn’t known the answer to that, but he would swear that Tom Riddle didn’t know either. 

“I don’t know,” Aberforth told Harry a second time. “Now eat.” He waved the children to the table, and they ate in silence, while Aberforth stood beneath his sister’s portrait, thinking. “Anathema?” He asked in a whisper twenty minutes later when Hermione and Ron had gone out of the room to plan and Harry appeared to be sleeping across the table. No one answered him. Ariana’s death and Anathema’s were two mysteries of the Wizarding World, both had made front page news, and no one had ever been blamed for their murders. Oh there were speculations. People _knew_ , but they couldn’t prove. Albus or Gellert had killed his sister, and Voldemort had killed his lover, or at least that was Dumbledore’s belief. Aberforth could remember the time after Anathema’s body had been found. Like the Death Eaters, he and many innocent others had felt the wrath of the Dark Lord. His actions were those of a man stricken by grief. Men didn’t grieve after brutally murdering their lover and child. 

“He would have had to be insane,” Aberforth whispered. He thought back on what Harry had said and what Dumbledore had tried to explain when he asked his brother to look out for the boy. Dumbledore had a plan, a plan Harry was carrying out. There was something inside of Hogwarts that needed to be destroyed. Could Voldemort have really found a way to achieve immortality, where Grindelwald had failed? And at Anathema’s expense? 

_XXX_

July 1947

Tom gritted his teeth together. 

Diagon Alley was almost bare of people that afternoon, but those who were out and about stayed well out of the rising Dark Lord’s way. Anathema had snuck out of their apartment just moments before Tom woke, he had heard the door opening and the sound of apparition, but he hadn’t been awake enough to consider calling out to his lover. This was the second time in the past two months. Anathema was keeping a secret, and Tom didn’t like that, didn’t like being ignored and forgotten. He certainly didn’t like the nasty voice within his mind that whispered constantly about how Ana had replaced him, found another, a secret other. Found someone who _could_ love him. 

“No,” he told himself. Anathema loved him, even if he couldn’t admit the same. Oh, the emotion was there, possibly, the fondness, the excitement when he lay eyes on the boy, the pleasure at waking up to Ana’s smile, of holding the boy in his arms, the calmness that surrounded him when they were alone together, the happiness Anathema’s smile aroused inside of him. But was that love? Was that enough? Even if it was, that didn’t change the fact that Tom couldn’t force the words to leave his throat, but Anathema knew Tom cared for him, loved him. But what if that wasn’t enough?

“No,” he said again, ignoring the looks he was receiving. Normal people didn’t talk to themselves in the middle of the street, after all. 

“Tom! Tom, my boy!” Someone called behind him. Tom stopped and turned slowly. His hand slipped into his pocket to fondle his wand, cautious and wary, but a smile appeared on his face as he recognized his assailant. 

“Professor Slughorn,” he greeted charmingly.

“Oh it’s Horace now, my boy. I’m not your professor any longer!” They shook hands, smiling at one another. Horace seemed particularly excited about something, and that made Tom curious. “I just wanted to congratulate you, Tom. It’s amazing news.”

“Of what are you speaking?” He asked, his head tilted to one side. 

“Why the baby, of course.” The elder man slapped Tom lightly on the arm, as if chastising him for playing dumb. “You must be so excited. I do hope you are planning on proposing, hmm? Unless the child isn’t yours. It wouldn’t matter if it was his lovers’ child, huh, that’d be the lover’s problem, right, my boy?” It was clearly meant as a joke, but a film of red settled over Tom’s eyes as he heard the words. 

“Anathema is with child?” He snarled, his mouth curling downwards. His forehead creased, eyes narrowing. “How do you know this?”

Slughorn took two steps back, wide-eyed. “Albus and I passed him on our way through Muggle London. He and, well, a rather handsome young man, were just leaving St Mungos. He was rather excited. Apparently it was his second appointment. He’s been feeling ill lately, so he went last month for tests. They told him he was pregnant and he was to go back today for a check-up. He has another appointment in two months apparently, you’ll be going along as well I bet? For the first scan? You must be feeling rather proud, hmm? You are both rather young, but well a child is such a blessing. And to think, marrying into the House of Black when you yourself came from nothing! Absolute genius, Tom!” 

Tom listened with half an ear. Anathema was wandering around London on the arm of a rather handsome young man, was he? The more Horace spoke, the angrier Tom become. He almost bit through his tongue at one point, his magic fluctuating wildly. 

Rage.

Rage. 

It was all he could feel. No that was a lie. There was jealous. And terror. Fear. He was overcome with fear. If Ana didn’t leave him for this other man, Tom would lose him anyway. They couldn’t have a baby. It was impossible to make a Horcrux for a child, and if Anathema waited any longer he could die, and Tom would lose him, and they couldn’t make him a Horcrux while he was pregnant. Fear. Loss. He felt dizzy, thinking about losing Anathema. But he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. Ana had promised to stay with him forever. And stay he would. Baby or no baby, Tom would get forever with his lover. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he murmured. Without waiting for a response, he turned back the way he had come and strode angrily through Diagon Alley.

“My boy?” Horace called after him. “Did you not know about the baby? I’m sure he was just working up the courage to tell you!” He looked around, noticing two men hiding in the threshold of a shop. “Was it something I said?” The men didn’t answer him. 

Tom was back at the flat before he knew it. He couldn’t remember anything after leaving Horace standing alone in the Alley, couldn’t remember letting himself into the flat, and he couldn’t remember gathering together his precious items. He’d stolen these, murdered for these, seduced and manipulated and lied to gather these possessions to him. He would keep them safe, keep them his, for always. Just like he planned to do with Anathema. 

None of them would ever leave him. Ever. 

Tom was faintly aware of voices in the hallway. He cocked his head to one side, smiling at the familiar sound of Anathema’s laugh. Then he frowned as another man laughed with him. “Bye Emmanuel!” Ana called to one of Tom’s Death Eaters. The Death Eater Tom had charged with protecting his lover. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“You really should tell our Lord. He’ll know something is wrong by now.” A low voice purred, and Tom snarled loudly. He could imagine the Death Eater leaning forward, pressing Ana into the wall as he spoke, breath mingling, lips touching. 

Anathema laughed again. “Tom worries too much. I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong before I told him. I think I’ll tell him now.” There was silence. “Think he’ll be excited?” Anathema whispered. Tom could barely hear him, but for a brief second the madness cleared from his mind. The child was his. His! He was having a family with Anathema. Anathema hadn’t betrayed him, hadn’t left him, or stopped loving him. Ana had only been worried about his reaction. But no! No, he reminded himself. This child would take Ana away from him; Anathema couldn’t live forever if he had this child. He’d never leave the child, never agree to make a Horcrux when that meant the child would age and die while Tom and Ana lived on, ageless, death-less. 

Anathema would be lost to him. And Tom would be forced to face eternity alone. He couldn’t be alone again, not after finding Ana. He had let the boy too close, let himself love (he could admit it now, admit that he did love the boy, but it was a situation like this that had him so terrified that he wasn’t able to admit the words). He couldn’t go back to the way he had been before. 

It was too late now. 

There was no other choice.

“Goodbye Anathema,” Emmanuel said. Footsteps echoed down the hallway. The door creaked open and Anathema came home. 

“Tom!” He called, grinning, with his arms spread wide open. He waited for Tom to come towards him, to pull him into a hug or a kiss as usual, but Tom remained seated on the couch watching him with a face carved from stone. “I have some brilliant news. Well, I think it’s brilliant, anyway!” 

Tom stood, slowly, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t move from that spot though, and so Anathema almost skipped towards him, still grinning. “I have some news too.” 

“Oh?” Ana asked, stopping directly in front of his lover. “You first then.”

“I’ve decided to make another Horcrux.” He whispered, lips pressed into a thin line and eyes gleaming red. Anathema looked down at the coffee table; upon it sat the Diadem of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff’s Cup. “Two Horcruxes.” Tom corrected himself. 

“Wha-?” Anathema began to ask, looking up at his lover in confusion. 

He was beautiful, Tom thought, so very beautiful. Almost too beautiful, far too beautiful to die. But there was no other choice now. He lunged, arms coming out from behind his back. One grabbed Anathema by the throat, and the other one came towards his stomach. 

Ana cried out as Tom punched him. It was only, seconds later, as agony rippled through his stomach that he realized he’d been stabbed. Tom had stabbed him in the stomach, stabbed their child. Riddle let him go, blood covering one hand as he raised it to brush his fringe from his face. The hilt of the knife poked out between the folds of Anathema’s robes, slick and glistening red. Ana sank to his knees, a horrified gurgle leaving his throat as he watched the blood seep from his body.

“My baby?” He whispered, falling to the floor. He curled on his side, hands pressing around the knife, trying to push the blood back in. 

Tom was chanting quietly, his eyes firmly fixed on the wall behind Ana and not on the bleeding boy himself. In his hand he held the Diadem, raised over his head. The words got louder, but to Anathema everything seemed quieter, softer. Sound was muffled, as if he was trapped underwater, trying to hear and see above ground. His eyes were tired, fluttering, vision blurring. He could see Tom coming closer, but he couldn’t struggle. He was too weak, too focused on stopping his baby from bleeding away from his body. 

The child was already dead. Tom had already committed the murder that tore off a chunk of his soul. 

His soul was already mutilated, Ana remembered. This wasn’t the first Horcrux. His child wasn’t the first to die for Tom’s immortality. Would he be next, he wondered dimly, remembering the second item on the table. Would the sacrifice of his soul lock Tom’s within the cup?

Anathema sobbed lightly as Tom gently placed the Diadem back onto the table. “I’ll keep it safe,” he promised his dying lover. Anathema gave another cry, pitiful and heartbroken, and Tom felt his breath catch in his chest. “You won’t leave me now,” he whispered, bending down over his love, “now you can make a Horcrux too and we can live together forever. The child can’t take you from me now, beloved.” 

Anathema weakly raised his arm. He pointed at the cup, finger trembling, before he brushed against Tom’s cheek, leaving a streak of blood in his wake. He allowed his hand to fall, landing on his stomach. Numb fingers scrambled for the knife, grabbing the hilt and tugging weakly. Tom watched as Ana pulled the knife from his stomach, and handed it to him. 

“Dying.” The brunette whispered. 

Tom frowned. His mouth was open, and his eyes had gone back to their usual navy blue colour. He didn’t understand, Tom thought dimly. The haze had retreated, his mind was foggy and unsure but he was able to think more clearly now. This wasn’t what he had planned. 

Anathema was meant to make a Horcrux now, and use Hufflepuff’s cup. Tom had been willing to give his prized possession over to his lover. He would easily find a replacement for it, but it would be impossible to replace his Ana. 

He reached for the cup, and held it out to Ana. “It’s your turn now.” 

Ana gave a hoarse laugh. “And whose… soul… a-am… I meant to… s-steal, Tom?” He asked, panting and wheezing between every other word. “There’s no… o-one here… but… but u-us.” Green eyes fluttered closed. They didn’t open again. 

Tom watched, holding his breath. Waiting to see if Anathema moved, spoke, breathed. When the boy did nothing for a full five minutes the awful truth dawned on him. Anathema was dead. 

He had sought to kill the baby. To force Anathema to create a Horcrux. 

But now Anathema was dead. 

He had killed the only person who had ever meant anything to him. He didn’t know why. It was all a large blur, feelings of anger, hate, and fear, irrational and insane, unexplainable. Everything had seemed like the best idea when he had waited for Anathema to come home; it had seemed like a logical plan. But no, if he had been thinking clearly, he would have kept Emmanuel behind. It wouldn’t have been such a sacrifice, Tom thought. He would have gotten over Emmanuel’s death. Then Ana could have had his Horcrux. There would have been no need for him to die so meaninglessly. 

“Not meaningless,” Tom breathed to himself. He reached for the cup. He would keep Anathema with him, like he had promised himself, like Ana had promised him. He thought of every memory they had, gathering as many as he could, as many as he could bare to part with. He needed to keep some of the boy, just for a while, enough to keep him sane but not have him stricken by grief. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the dead boy. 

“I love you,” he said for the first time in his life. 

Tom thought of Anathema. His lover, cursed to damnation. 

And he began chanting. 

_XXX_

May 1st 1998. 

Harry woke with a scream. Hands clutched at his stomach, nails scratching at the fabric of his robes, trying to dig through to his skin. He needed to reach the skin, he thought frantically, still screaming. He needed to feel the bulge. There was a bulge. He was over three months pregnant; there should have been a bump. 

But there was nothing. Nothing grew inside of him. No blood coated his abdomen.

The screams stopped as Hermione, Ron and Aberforth came running up the staircase. Hermione immediately pulled Harry away from the coffee table and into her arms. He sobbed desperately against her neck. 

The two Wizards watched, horrified and afraid, as Harry continued to wail. He cried for his baby. He cried for Anathema, who had been murdered, and whose baby had been cruelly stolen away from him. 

He cried for himself. He had wanted to know how he had died, and know he knew, and there was no possible way to unlearn this memory. He could Obliviate himself. But the feeling would still be there, the despair, the fear, the agony of being betrayed by the person you loved the most. He recalled Voldemort laying down Hufflepuff’s cup, and drawing Anathema’s cold, bloody body against his chest. 

“I love you,” Tom had breathed, over and over, half-hoping Ana would say them back. 

Harry sobbed harder as the words echoed inside of his mind. Half of his soul wanted to whisper them back, the part of him that was reliving Anathema’s agony wanted to forgive his lover, to love him once again and be whole and complete and not lonely. And the other half of him wanted his child back. He wanted to be pregnant, and alive, and safe and loved and not to have been murdered by the father of his child. 

He cried for Voldemort’s grief. For his jealousy and paranoia and insanity. Harry cried because of the Horcruxes. They had been the cause of his death, they had driven Tom insane, and he had died to make two of them. Now he would likely die trying to destroy them, the diadem and the cup, the two most important ones. Would he be able to? 

“He killed my baby,” Harry whispered at last. Everyone heard him, but only Hermione had any idea of what he might have been talking about. 

“Anathema,” she whispered. “He was pregnant?”

It dawned on Aberforth then, that his brother had been right, that Tom Riddle really had brutally murdered his family. Nagini had been created so that Tom could purge the last of his feelings and thoughts and memories into her, so he could forget to care, forget that he had once loved. So that he could become Lord Voldemort. Anathema had died meaninglessly. Like Ariana, Aberforth thought sadly. A unhappy collateral in a stupid man’s rise to infamy. 

“He killed my baby,” Harry sobbed again. The tears were no longer flowing, but his chest heaved and he continued to claw at his clothed stomach. “There was so much blood. I couldn’t save my baby.”

“It’s ok,” Hermione whispered, even though it wasn’t. “Everything will be ok.”

When he closed his eyes, it was no longer the sight of Anathema covered in blood that flickered behind his eyelids. It was the Horcrux from the Locket. Tom Riddle smirked at him, one hand outstretched as he whispered, “come to me love,” and then Anathema was there, pregnant and crying, “Why would you kill me? I loved you!” 

Harry sniffled. He turned his face away from Hermione’s neck so that he could look up at her face. She looked down on him with so much pity that it made his heart hurt, so he turned away, looking from Ron to Aberforth, then down at his flat, un-bloodied stomach. 

“He killed my baby,” he said once more, trying to drown out the voice in his head that sounded like Voldemort, hissing out the words “ **I love you, Harry, I love you, Anathema** ” over and over. “Why don’t I hate him?” Harry whispered. 

No one answered him. 

**XXX**

This is the one you've all been waiting on isn't it? With the exception of Harry and Voldemort finally having sex? :P


	11. Chapter 11

Was absolutely convinced I had finished updating this? :S Sorry about that!   
Butterfly is also up on this site, if anyone is interested in checking it out!

 

 **Words:** 3,352  
 **Chapter 11**  
May 1st 1998. 

Hermione wasn’t stupid, far from it in fact. When Aberforth had been telling her and Ron about Ariana, and how the poor girl had died, Hermione had thought to ask about Tom Riddle. Harry’s past life had been tied to Voldemort’s, and while she hadn’t known quite who he had been, Hermione had heard Bellatrix, Narcissa and Aberforth address Harry as ‘Anathema’. It wasn’t much of a stretch to assume that that had been Harry’s name then. He had been Anathema someone. Someone who had been important to the Dark Lord. 

Aberforth hadn’t told her exactly what she wanted to know. But he had given her a few hints. He spoke like his brother, in riddles and half-truths, but Hermione had grown used to Albus Dumbledore as well. She had understood. If anyone would have known about Anathema and Tom, it would have been him, Dumbledore, the only one Tom Riddle ever feared. She wondered why that was. Perhaps, she mused, glancing at Ron from the corner of her eyes as they ran, it was because Dumbledore was the only one to believe that Tom was capable of murdering the love of his life? 

“Where are we going?” Ron panted, running along beside his girlfriend. 

“The headmaster’s office!” Hermione told him. 

The ruined Cup hung from Ron’s belt, tied on with a piece of conjured string. The Horcrux was gone, stabbed by the fang of a Basilisk, which was held tightly in Ron’s right hand. It had been ingenious of her boyfriend, Hermione admitted. He had asked her to use _Legilimency_ on him, to pull forth the memory of their second year, and memorised how to pronounce ‘open’ in Parseltongue. He had done a decent job of it, because the sink had slid to the side, and allowed them entry into the Chamber of Secrets. They were one more Horcrux down now. 

Harry had gone after the diadem, and Hermione wanted to find him before he found it. But there was something she had to do first. 

When they stopped in front of the stone gargoyle, it looked down on them curiously, and then slid to the side. Silently, Hermione pulled her wand from her robe and held it warily in front of her. If the gargoyle wasn’t asking for a password, then whoever was in that office knew they were there and wanted them to come upstairs. And that didn’t bode well for them. But when Hermione and Ron stepped into the office, wands raised, no one was waiting for them. 

“Keep an eye out,” Hermione hissed to Ron, her eyes darting around frantically. 

Ron gave a quick nod, turning his back on the office to peek back down the open staircase, checking for intruders. The Basilisk fang was in one hand, and his wand in the other, and he actually looked rather intimidating. He was still an idiot though, Hermione thought fondly, turning her back on him. 

She made her way to the large stone basin that stood alone on one side of the headmaster’s office. Harry had told her it was usually kept hidden, but right now it was out in plain sight, as if someone wanted her to find it. It seemed rather suspicious, but then again, a strange Patronus had led Harry to the Sword of Gryffindor and no harm had come to him then. Perhaps this was just luck, all part and parcel of having Harry Potter in her life. 

She shrugged away the notion that this was a trap, ignored the feeling of eyes on her back, and hurriedly began tucking vials into her backpack. The little vials were filled with swirling silver mist, memories of the great Albus Dumbledore, and all were neatly hand labelled. Hermione grabbed the ones that were marked ‘Tom’, and ‘Harry’, and ‘Anathema’. She couldn’t find any labelled ‘Voldemort’, and assumed correctly that they didn’t exist, because Dumbledore had always seen Tom and Voldemort as the same person. Their only difference was that they were obsessed with two different boys. The same boy, Hermione thought worriedly, wondering on Anathema’s relation to Tom. The only difference was their names. 

“Come on,” she said, tugging Ron down the stairs. “I have them.”

Ron paused though, mouth open and eyes wide. “Isn’t that? Bloody hell!” 

The wall above the Headmaster’s desk had been bare, though there were three hooks nailed into the wall as if something hand once hung from that spot. As Ron gaped at the wall, something appeared, quickly, magically, as if it had been there the entire time and they just hadn’t noticed. The Sword of Gryffindor, the real one, hung in front of them, and Ron jogged over to pull it down from the wall. His fang was tucked away, and armed with the Sword and his wand he turned to his girlfriend. 

“Result!” He chuckled, “least Harry will be happy, eh?”

“Come on!” Hermione watched him carry the Sword down the staircase, chalking its appearance up as another fluke, another proof of Harry’s insane luck, and followed him. 

Neither of them saw Professor Snape move out of the shadows and cancel the concealment charm he had placed upon himself. He sat down in the Headmaster’s chair, and steepled his fingers. 

His eyes narrowed as his gazed moved over to the pensieve he had been using himself before the teenagers’ arrival. Anathema Black…

The Muggleborn had been interested in Anathema Black. Snape had watched her gather the vials with his name on them, watched her tuck them into her bag, and he had allowed her to leave. Whatever she was planning to do with the memories, Snape thought, she’d better do it soon. He looked out of the window, feeling his Dark Mark burn, and watching the rows and rows of black-clad Wizards appear on the horizon. 

The Dark Lord would arrive soon. 

And Potter would be out of luck. 

_XXX_

Luna had taken him to Ravenclaw Tower, and Nearly-Headless Nick had pointed him in the direction of the Grey Lady. So while he knew what the diadem looked like, and how Tom had managed to find it, Harry still didn’t know where it was. 

Until he was walking past a handful of marching statues, charmed to move and fight at Professor McGonagall’s request, that it hit Harry like a smack to the face. The statues reminded him of Ravenclaw’s bust in the Tower, with the stone diadem upon her head. And that reminded him of the ugly bust in the Room of Hidden Things, which sat upon the cupboard he had hidden Snape’s potions book in. Upon that busts head, was the real diadem. 

He couldn’t believe how many times he had been close to it, been able to touch it, but not once had Harry realised what it was. He could have destroyed it, at any time in the past handful of years since he had discovered the Room of Requirements, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t known that he needed to destroy it. But now he did, now he would. If only he could get the Room cleared out. The room wouldn’t change if there were people in it. 

“Ginny, I’m sorry, but you need to leave too,” he told her, after watching Tonks and Madame Longbottom rush from the room in search of their families. “Just for a bit. Then you can come back.” The grin on Ginny’s face meant that she was more than happy to leave, and she rushed from the room, ignoring Harry calling after her, “You’ve got to come back in!” 

It was strange, Harry thought as he watched her leave, how he hadn’t been stunned at her prettiness like he had once been. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that, but when Harry had looked upon her in that moment he had seen his best friend’s little sister. His hand unconsciously fell to his stomach, lightly rubbing circles on the robe and hidden flesh beneath. Ginny would be able to give him children, plenty of children, and he’d never hurt her, or their baby, and he definitely wouldn’t hurt her while she was carrying his baby. So he’d never have to live through that pain again, the pain of losing a child: all of theirs would be healthy, and alive, and loved. 

Harry frowned, imagining their future children. But in his mind’s eye, their children always looked like a mix of him and Tom Riddle. 

He flinched at the images, wondering if Anathema’s child would have looked like that too. But then he pushed away the thoughts. Voldemort didn’t want children, with anyone, and certainly not him. The man wanted to kill him; he had made that clear by addressing the School and Hogsmeade, offering life and protection to anyone who handed Harry Potter to his death. 

He stepped out of the room, walked three times each way down the corridor while he thought about the place that it was hidden, and then Harry stepped back into the room. He hadn’t paid attention to those waiting to be let back into the room, and he ignored the shouts and screams of the people fighting on the floors below him. Just because Voldemort was holding back, didn’t mean his Death Eaters were. Harry thought they must have been close to fighting their way inside by now, but that was more of a reason to find the Horcrux and destroy it. Destroy it, before Voldemort could destroy him, he told himself firmly. 

Yet, there was a voice in the back of his mind, telling him to take the Horcrux and cherish it. His child had died to make this one, it told him; love it, like you would have loved your child. If he killed Nagini, and Voldemort, then there would be no more Horcruxes. Voldemort wouldn’t be able to use the soul piece in the diadem alone, he’d need help, and Harry could keep the diadem safe and secluded and then no one would get near it to help Voldemort… no one. The diadem would be Harry’s forever. 

Harry stood before the ugly headpiece. One hand was outstretched, telling him to grab it, take it, kill it. And his other hand hung by his side, the fingers clenched tightly, and he told himself it was better this way. 

“Destroy the diadem,” he whispered, “before he destroys me.” 

“That’s my wand you’re holding, Potter!” A voice called from behind him. 

Harry let his arm drop, twirling around to see who had spoken, even though he recognized the voice straight away. Crabbe and Goyle stood shoulder to shoulder behind him, their wands outstretched. In the space between their heads, Harry could see Draco Malfoy, who also had a wand pointed at his chest. 

“Who leant you their wand?” Harry asked curiously. 

Malfoy’s face turned down, annoyed and angry, “my mother,” he said. And Harry laughed softly, though there was nothing funny about the situation. He wondered if Lucius or Narcissa were fighting outside, though now neither of them had wands. Harry wondered if they knew their son was here. 

They were so close, so very close. Harry wondered if he could reach back quickly, grab the diadem and then dive out of the way before the Slytherins could attack him. He doubted it, but it was worth a try. He had come too far, fought too hard, to lose now. There were only a couple of Horcruxes left, and he was so close. He couldn’t be beaten by Crabbe, Goyle and Malfoy now. 

They couldn’t have his diadem. 

_XXX_

Ron and Hermione had run into Luna first, who had told them Harry was searching for them. Then Ginny run passed them, her red hair flying behind her and her wand outstretched as she cursed people out of her way. Hermione aimed a spell at a Death Eater, tucked behind an open door and waited until he fell with a thump before peeking back out. Ron looked over her shoulder, “Ginny!” He called, “what are you doing here?”

“Harry’s in the Room,” she called back over her shoulder, already running into her next battle. 

When they found the Room of Requirements, the door opened easily for them. Harry flew passed the doorway on a rickety old broom, Malfoy seated behind him, clinging to his waist. Fire raged all around them, creatures of abnormal sizes and mythical shapes made of flames chased after the broomstick, chomping on the bristles of the tail and making Malfoy shriek with fear. 

“ _Aguamenti_!” Hermione shrieked, her wand pointed at Malfoy’s back which had caught fire. That flame went out, leaving his robes singed and smoking, but the monstrous beasts continued to chase them. 

Goyle’s body was slumped over a three-legged desk, and Hermione quickly cast a summoning charm, grunting as his weight knocked both her and Ron into the wall. 

“The door’s that way!” Malfoy cried, pale faced, “where are you going?”

Harry turned the broom around, and dipped, flying low over the flames. He could see the diadem, he could almost reach it; he just needed to fly a little lower. Malfoy reached around him, trying to pull the brooms up, and it was only chance that his arm knocked off of the diadem and it got caught on the sleeve of his robe. Harry pulled up; keeping a careful eye on the headpiece that was attached to Malfoy’s wrist. With all of the flying skills he had been born with and trained throughout his years at Hogwarts, he flew them from the room, barely escaping the Feindfyre, and with a cry of relief Malfoy kicked the door closed behind them.

They crashed into a wall, panting and gasping. Malfoy rolled tiredly onto his back, and Harry reached towards him warily to pull the diadem away. 

He hadn’t wanted to destroy it, he realised. Part of him had wanted to say ‘fuck the greater good’ and keep the diadem for himself, but the choice hadn’t been left up to him ultimately. It was fortunately, in some respects, because Harry doubted Hermione could convince him to destroy the diadem like she had the locket. 

The fire had destroyed this one for him. 

Harry’s fingers lightly caressed the blackened artefact, frowning at the thin coating of black ooze on its surface. 

“What’s so fascinating, Potter?” Malfoy asked, turning his face away from the unconscious Goyle to look at his teenage arch-enemy. 

Harry’s mouth moved involuntarily. He hadn’t meant for the words to come out, but he had spoken them before he realised what he was doing. Panicking at the look of confusion on Ron and Malfoy faces, and the knowing look of pity on Hermione’s he surged to his feet. He threw the diadem at his friend, who caught it with ease, cradling it gently to her chest, and then he ran. He wasn’t watching where he was going, he didn’t notice who he passed or who he tripped over or who tried to curse him. He just kept running, away. 

“My baby died to make this,” he had said, caressing the Horcrux lovingly. 

_XXX_

May 2nd 1998. 

It was only minutes after midnight, but the sun had already started to rise. It was little more than a thin line of light on the horizon, running completely parallel with the gradient of the land, and the moon was still full and bright in the sky, but it was rising. Harry wondered briefly if it was a sign. A sign of the end of the world, the end of his world at least, or just an omen of ominous things to come. 

He watched the burning horizon from the window of the Headmaster’s office, his back to the pensieve. 

The gargoyle had let him inside without protest, but this time Snape wasn’t watching as Harry poured the vial of memories into the shimmery surface of the pensieve. Snape was dead. It had been Snape’s memories that Harry had watched moments ago, Snape’s memories that had rocked his world and stilled his heart and made him tremble. 

He knew what he had to do now. There were no more conflicting thoughts about protecting Horcruxes or ending the war with the power of love. There was no conflict within him whatsoever. A bittersweet smile crossed his lips as he left the office and made his way passed the fighting, screaming, dying Witches and Wizards, and out into the open, blood drenched grounds. Hogwarts was crumbling around him. His first home, their first home, Harry correcting thinking of Anathema and Tom, falling to dust and ashes as giants threw each other around and spells and curses crashed into its stone walls. Harry took a deep breath, handing his cloak and the Sword he had taken from Ron to Neville as they crossed paths. 

“If you get a chance, kill his snake,” he told his fellow Gryffindor. “Make sure you cut off the head.”

Then, Harry made his way into the Forbidden Forest. 

He imagined that he could hear them talking and laughing, already celebrating his death. But there was silence within the forest except for his feet crunching over fallen leaves. He peered through a gap in the corpse of trees before him, swallowing nervously at the lines of Death Eaters that waited impatiently before Lord Voldemort. 

“He isn’t coming,” the Dark Lord whispered. “It seems I was… mistaken.” 

Harry thought he sounded rather upset, but of course he would be. No more easy kill, no, now Voldemort thought he would have to chase Harry down and fight him and risk Harry escaping. The boy almost laughed. There was nowhere to escape to now, and even if there was, that wouldn’t be an option for him. 

He had to do this. There was no choice. 

He took a step back, rummaging one-handed in the moke-skin pouch that hung around his neck, and he pulled out the golden Snitch Dumbledore had given him. “I’m about to die,” he whispered with his mouth pressed to its glossy surface. It cracked open, splitting in two, and Harry caught the Gaunt ring as it fell out. The black stone was dirty and scratched, but Harry could faintly make out the symbol of the Deathly Hallows etched upon it. 

Harry knew he shouldn’t. He knew there was no point, because he would be joining them soon enough, but he wanted to see them. He wanted to know them in life, for just a moment, just a moment more than he’d ever had a chance to before. So he turned the ring over, three times, between the fingers of both hands, and then he waited. But no one appeared before him, no one came to visit orphaned Harry Potter or lonely Anathema Black. Harry slipped the ring on his ring-finger, clenching the hand shut so tight that the ring cut into his skin and made him hiss, and then he stepped forward. 

He came through the trees, and the Death Eaters automatically moved out of the way, surprised and wary. Harry was wandless, both wands tucked into the pouch around his neck along with the broken pieces of his first wand. He didn’t look at Voldemort as he spoke; instead his eyes were on Hagrid who was tied to a rather thick-trunked tree. 

“You weren’t,” Harry told him, as loudly as he could, trying not to sound afraid. 

“Ahn- Harry Potter,” Voldemort said after a short stretch of silence, in which their eyes had finally met and their gazes had been held, and Harry had been unable to break away. “The boy who lived… come to die.” His wand was lowered, but as he spoke it rose higher and higher until it was pointed at Harry’s forehead, at the scar that had started it all. 

Voldemort paused, watching, waiting, and then he spoke. His mouth moved, but Harry couldn’t hear the words. He met Voldemort’s red, slitted eyes again, and he didn’t try to duck, or weave, or dodge. 

Harry stood still and waited for the green light to strike him. 

It was time to die. 

**XXX**


	12. Chapter 12

And because the end of the last two chapters have been kind of evil........ ENJOY and thanks for commenting :)

 

 **Words:** 4,350  
 **Chapter 12**  
May 2nd 1998

“He isn’t coming,” Voldemort murmured in disappointment. He had been so sure that Harry would have come to him, would have fought him fearless and proud, and fallen to make way for a new era, his era. That Harry hadn’t appeared hurt Voldemort on some level, because he had been sure that he knew Harry better than his Death Eaters did, because after all he alone had known Anathema completely. Anathema would have come to save the people he loved, and Harry should have too. “It seems I was mistaken.” 

“You weren’t,” a voice called out, loud but shaky. 

Voldemort looked up at the sound of it, eyes narrowing as his Death Eaters parted like the Red Sea to allow Harry Potter to walk between them. Potter wasn’t looking at him, staring off to the side instead, watching their half-giant prisoner with sad eyes. They were nearly close enough to touch, Voldemort realized. All he needed to do was take a few steps forward and then he could pull Ana into his arms. 

_Anathema_ , his mind whispered, “Ahn-” he began to say. The Dark Lord winced, biting on his tongue to keep the word from slipping out. “Harry Potter,” he managed to hiss instead, hands fisted at his sides, the elder wand hanging loosely from one of them. 

Harry turned his head, and their eyes met. Voldemort almost gasped and he had to squeeze tight around his wand, tight enough that his fingers began to ache, in order to ground himself. He felt like swaying, dizzy and sick and exhilarated all at the same time, and he wanted to walk towards Harry and he wanted to run away simultaneously. Part of him could be convinced that it was Anathema. He had Ana back, he could keep Ana this time; take the boy away somewhere away from the war and just _be_. But then Harry tilted his head to one side, his mouth turned down before flicking up into a quick smile and then dropping again, and Voldemort frowned too. Anathema had never looked at him like that before, hopeless and helpless and damned. Potter had come here knowing he was going to die, wandless, and with those stupid glasses on his face that Anathema had never worn, reckless and brave and so much the Gryffindor that Voldemort couldn’t deny it anymore. 

He might have been Anathema Black at one point in time. But he was Harry Potter now. And Harry Potter had mastered the Elder Wand, Harry was the child prophesised to defeat him, and it was Harry who stood in the way of his winning this war. There was no choice. As much as Voldemort reluctantly admitted that he wanted to keep _Harry_ as well, he couldn’t. There was too much at stake, and he had come too far. He wouldn’t– couldn’t –lose now. 

He slowly raised his arm, the wand in his hand feeling heavier than usual and Voldemort momentarily struggled to hold it straight. He pointed it at Harry’s scar, and frowned when the boy did nothing to escape. He didn’t duck or dodge or dive; he simply stood there, green eyes wide and bright behind those horrible glasses, and he waited for Voldemort to kill him for the second time. 

“ **I’m just not destined to keep you, am I, Ana?** ” Voldemort hissed to himself. 

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ” Voldemort shouted, wand emitted a jet of poisonous green. 

Harry’s eyes narrowed and Voldemort wasn’t sure if it was because he heard the pathetic Parseltongue sentence, or if it was because Voldemort had finally cast the Curse he had been waiting over a decade to cast. But Harry narrowed his eyes, and then he waited body tense as he watched the green light shoot towards him. He didn’t try to escape because there was no point. It was time for him to die. 

The Dark Lord cried out, hands dropping his wand and moving to clutch at his chest as pain lanced through him. Harry’s body hit the floor with a dull thud, pale and unmoving, and Voldemort collapsed to his knees, chest heaving as he tried to breathe through the pain. Green light filled his vision, and for a moment he imagined that he was experiencing death through Harry’s eyes, the light of the Killing Curse the last thing he had seen, and Voldemort wondered if this was Fate’s punishment for him. He had almost died trying to kill Harry as an infant, and now, would he die a second time? Become bodiless and helpless, damned for another decade and a half, because he hadn’t been able to help himself, hadn’t been able to stop himself from killing his soul mate _again_? 

If I hadn’t needed to kill him, Voldemort thought faintly, still overcome with the pain, then Fate should have let me keep him. 

Death Eaters hovered over him, muttering and worrying, but Voldemort could only hear Ana’s voice, calling to him, telling him it was time to sleep for a little while now. Time to rest, to recoup his strength; he had to sleep until Harry woke up. But Harry was dead, wasn’t he? That was his last thought before he blacked out.1 

_XXX_

October 31st 1981. 

“Please not my baby? Kill me instead! Please don’t hurt my baby!” A woman was wailing, gasping and sobbing, and Voldemort snarled at the sound of her voice. He rolled over, wincing as he brought a hand up to his chest, rubbing at the spot that was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. “Please spare my son!” 

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ” A voice hissed, cold and cruel, and Voldemort realized that he was speaking. Even as he knelt upon the floor of wherever he was, a nursery he realized as he glanced around, words were leaving his mouth without conscious thought. “Lily Potter,” he whispered, awed and horrified as he met her watery dull gaze.

She lay on the ground beside his feet, still and pale, with tears rolling down her cheeks, and Voldemort couldn’t help but shove her away from him. 

This wasn’t happening, he thought.

Harry Potter cried softly, standing inside of his cot, red faced and snotty and Voldemort couldn’t stop his feet from moving. His arm rose, bringing his wand up as well, and his feet forced him to walk closer to Harry’s crib. He remembered this. He remembered killing the boy’s parents, trying to kill the boy, and Merlin he remembered the pain… But there was already a scar on Harry’s forehead, raw and bloody and shaped like a lightning bolt, and the room was bright with green light, but Voldemort didn’t remember casting anything. 

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ” Someone else shouted, and it sounded so much like himself that Voldemort whirled around in surprise, wand outstretched. 

Albus Dumbledore stared back at him. 

“Tom, my boy, fancy seeing you here.”

Was this hell? Voldemort thought, heart beating frantically. Was he dead now? Had he really died along with Harry, damned for eternity to relive the moment that started it all, the second chapter of Anathema’s existence, the scar and the deaths and the pain? Eternity with an infant Harry, and his corpse mother, and Albus fucking Dumbledore of all people, but with no Anathema in sight? Voldemort sighed, “This was why I never wanted to die.”

“I thought you never wanted to die so that you could live forever?” Dumbledore questioned, pushing his glasses back up his nose with one thin finger. “But that matters not in the scheme of things.” Voldemort merely raised an eyebrow, his attention caught by the sniffling child rather than his arch enemy. “Well, my boy, of course death doesn’t matter if you’re not dead. Though, I found death rather peaceful. I’ve never felt as relaxed in my life, Tom, and I’m rather glad to be here now. There are so many people I’ve been waiting to speak to.”

“Anathema?” Voldemort questioned softly, hopefully. If he was dead, and Harry _was_ dead, then they could be together. If Dumbledore could speak to Ana then so he could, he decided stubbornly. 

“Oh no, no, Anathema hasn’t quite made it yet. He might be here soon and he mightn’t be. It really depends, you see. Harry has a lot left to live for, though you seem quite determined to ignore what was put right in front of your face. He was practically handed to you on a platter, Tom, named and prophesised to be yours, and you killed him. Again.”

“He was going to kill me!” Voldemort clenched his fingers around his wand, angry and desperate. He didn’t enjoy having Anathema’s death rubbed in his face, nor did he want to remember how much he had wanted to kiss Harry and keep him and _have_ him when he knew that he couldn’t. 

“He was going to defeat you. There is a difference. And I always did say that the power you knew not was love, Tom. Too little or too much, I don’t know which, but you should never hurt the ones you love. First chance, second chance…” Dumbledore rubbed at his beard in thought, blue eyes twinkling, “but they do say that the third time is the charm, hmm?”

Before Voldemort could ask what he meant, whether Anathema would be reincarnated again, whether he was actually dead or not, whether Harry was dead in fact, or whether he really was in hell despite having one Horcrux remaining, Dumbledore spoke again. 

“It’s time for you to go someplace, Tom.” He smiled warmly, looking at the Dark Lord in a way that had been reserved for Gellert and Anathema and Harry, as if he were special and loved and believed in. “Harry has nowhere to go.”

The room began to spin around him, walls shaking and blurring and the ceiling began to droop inwards like there was too much weight on top pushing it down. Harry began to cry again, alone and afraid, and Voldemort turned in a full circle trying to find Albus who had disappeared from sight. The crying stopped, and Harry wasn’t in his crib anymore, and Voldemort gripped his wand tightly, wondering what was coming, who was coming, now. 

His eyes clenched shut as the room exploded into light, bright and burning, and Voldemort hissed as it brought him to his knees. A voice was calling to him, but he didn’t have the ability to answer. He fell to his hands and knees, eyes still closed and dry heaved. 

And the room stopped moving at last. 

_XXX_

May 2nd 1998.

He was on his hands and knees when he opened his eyes. Grass and leaves crunched beneath his fingers as he flexed them, nails digging into the earth. He looked up, rocking back swiftly, away from Bellatrix whose face was almost nose-to-nose with his. Voldemort sat on his haunches, back straight and legs folded beneath him, and he brought one pale hand up to press against his face. He had a nose, and a mouth, and stubble, there was stubble on his chin, and his fringe fell into his eyes and he blew the strands out of the way carelessly, as if it weren’t a novelty. 

“You’ve changed, my Lord,” Bellatrix breathed, taking in the changes with her mouth open. 

Voldemort smirked to himself. He had lost Horcruxes, that much was obvious, and he must have lot more than one in close proximity to each other, but Nagini was still there twisting and tumbling within the magical sphere he had created for her. One was really all he needed. Just one, Anathema had asked him, as they walked hand-in-hand towards Riddle Manor, the Ring cutting into their joined palms and the diary in Tom’s other hands. Ana had told him he only needed the one to live forever, and he should have taken his lovers advice. He had Nagini; he didn’t need the others, though he remembered with a pang of guilt that he had promised to keep the diadem safe. He had obviously failed if Harry and his friends were in Hogwarts. They hadn’t gone there for him, and there wasn’t much else at the school that would have attracted their interests apart from the Horcrux. 

But it didn’t matter now. Anathema was dead. Harry was dead. Voldemort didn’t owe anything to anyone else now. 

“Check on the boy,” he ordered, waving his hand at a pale Narcissa Malfoy. 

She trembled lightly as she bowed to him, shifting until she was kneeling at the teenager’s side. Her hand touched him, and then flew to her mouth as she tried to stifle a gasp. But Voldemort had heard her and was making his way to her side, and it was too late for her to lie to save the boy. 

“What is it?” He questioned, eyes narrowed. 

“He’s alive,” Narcissa told him. 

But he had noticed the rise and fall of the boy’s chest before she had spoken, so the words didn’t surprise him as much as they did the rest of his Inner Circle. Eyes softened as they took in the dirty, pale face of the boy wonder. His Anathema, Voldemort thought in wonder. His Anathema was alive. He hadn’t killed him, he hadn’t been able to kill him; just like back in 1981 Harry had survived the Killing Curse. 

“It’s Fate,” the Wizard whispered, a small smile playing on his pink lips. “ _Stupefy_ ,” he yelled, casting the spell on the unconscious boy to keep him from waking up. “ **Come my pet, it’s time to return home. I’ll introduce you to Anathema.** ” Nagini’s cage floated towards him, and Voldemort bent down to gather Harry into his arms, bridal style. He turned towards the Death Eaters, face blank and pale, red eyes narrowed and he nodded once. 

The Death Eaters knew what to do. Lucius, who was shaking and whose face was bruised, stepped forward, whispering hesitantly, “my Lord?” He pointed at Hagrid, who had been watching everything in stunned silence. “He’ll tell people that Potter isn’t dead.”

The plan had been to kill Harry, and then take the school by telling them their saviour was dead. Hagrid would interfere with that plan, and Voldemort pulled Harry tighter against his chest before he nodded once more. 

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ” Bellatrix yelled, as neither Lucius or Narcissa had wands. 

“Lucius,” Voldemort hissed, feeling charitable and forgiving. Lucius had noticed Hagrid, whom Voldemort had overlooked. Lucius had probably saved their plan from failing. “You will act in my stead, and then you will report straight back to me. Your wife may search for your son. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord.” He bowed, blond hair shielding his face from view, but Voldemort could smell the blush on the man’s cheeks. Lucius was honoured, was pleased, and he was excited, though still afraid for his son. And Voldemort wondered, if he had allowed their child to survive, would he worry for it as Lucius did for his progeny? Though, undoubtedly, any child of his would get into far more trouble than Malfoy could ever manage. And any child of Harry’s… Anathema’s… he shook the thought away, unsure of what it was he had been thinking really, because all he could think about now was how his child might look. Black hair, pale skin, and green eyes he hoped. There needed to be something of Anathema in their child, in the child that’d never exist except in dreams and nightmares. 

Voldemort pushed the thought away. Now wasn’t the time to allow grief to overwhelm him. He glanced at Nagini as he walked, wondering if he could make one more Horcrux, just one more, and he’d hide all of his feelings within that last one, and then he’d decide what to do with Harry James Potter. 

_XXX_

May 2nd 1998. 

“Harry Potter is dead!” Lucius Malfoy said, voice amplified by magic, so that every person on Hogwarts grounds could hear him. Almost immediately the fighting stopped. People turned slowly, half of them awed and the other half disbelieving and terrified, all watching to see if Lucius could prove it. Several more Death Eaters emerged from the Forbidden Forest, floating a body in the centre of the circle they made. Harry Potter was still and his arms flopped by his sides as the Death Eaters chuckled and jostled him excitedly. 

“The Dark Lord has triumphed. Lay down your arms and surrender to this new age that is dawning even as we speak. The Dark Lord has gone to the Ministry. By now they will know that He was triumphant and that Potter is no more. There is to be no more battle, no more fighting, and no more resistance. Resistance is futile. It is time to come together, to become one entity. You have no other choice.”3 

Hermione and Ron stopped where they were, lowering their wands automatically. “NO!” Ron yelled, making an attempt to run forward, to help his friend who was already beyond help. 

Hermione grabbed him tightly, pulling him back against her chest, and she held on to him as he yelled and cried out. He wasn’t the only one: people were screaming now, crying wildly or silently, and some were running away, only to be stopped by the Death Eaters. Hermione stood calmly in the centre of chaos, her eyes narrowed in thought. “Ron, what was Harry wearing?” She asked curiously. He looked over his shoulder at her, eyebrows furrowed. “If he was killed, why would the Death Eaters change his clothes before showing him to us?” 

Ron looked back at the body, which had since been let drop spitefully to the muddied ground. Harry was wearing a tunic that was much too large for him, and it looked hairy as if it had been made from an animal pelt, crude and uncultured, handmade. Trousers hung over the ends of his feet, tan and dirty, with patches where the knees should have been if they had been the right length. “He was wearing jeans,” Ron breathed. “That’s not Harry. That’s not Harry!”

“Shush!” Hermione hissed, clamping a hand over his mouth. “Be quiet. We need to find Ginny and get out of here. If that isn’t Harry, then Voldemort probably took him to the Ministry.”

“You think he’s alive?” Ron asked hopefully. They spotted Ginny, crying desperately a few feet away from them, hunched over on the ground with her hands over her face. Carefully, cautiously, they walked towards her, slowly so that it didn’t look as if they were trying to run. 

“He might be. Voldemort probably wants to torture him first, or rub his face in it, or something equally as heinous. If he had been killed them they would have brought his real body to us. We need to rescue him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron muttered; as he reached down to grab Ginny’s shoulder. “It’s not the first time we’ve broken into the Ministry. And Harry is worth it. Come on Gin, come on, we need to get out of here. Harry needs us.” 

“We’ll go to the Hogshead, come on, quickly,” Hermione breathed, helping Ron tug Ginny to her feet. 

The girl was almost non-responsive, but with wide eyes she looked between the couple and whispered, “Harry?”

“We’re going to rescue him now.” Hermione whispered. Together the three of them began inching away from the battle field. But they didn’t get far before a Death Eater was in front of them, his wand alternating between their faces. 

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“She’s hurt. She needs to go to the Infirmary.” Hermione said, raising her chin stubbornly. “That man there said we could bring her!” She pointed behind them, at a random Death Eater who wasn’t paying them any attention. He turned, probably to shout at his comrade, but someone screaming caught his attention instead. 

Ron shouted, shocked and surprised, as someone came running from the Forbidden Forest, completely on fire. The person was screaming, agonised and terrified, and it didn’t occur to him to stop, drop and roll. Instead, he collapsed, still holding the Sword of Gryffindor with shaking arms, and continued to scream, skin bubbling and hair sizzling, and his mouth released a gurgled word that sounded like, “Nagini.” Hermione felt tears on her face as the Death Eaters merely stood around laughing as Neville burnt to death. But she needed to remain rationale; there would be time to mourn later, once Harry was safe and Voldemort was defeated. 

“We need to go, now, while they’re distracted.” 

They began running, and Ron glanced over his shoulder once the screaming stopped to catch a Death Eater picking up the Sword, tugging it away from charred fingers, and giving a surprised grunt as the invisibility cloak came away with it. Ron grimaced, imagining the Dark Lord owning things that should by rights be with Harry. He felt sick just thinking about it. But once Voldemort was dead, they could steal the sword and the cloak back. Once they had rescued Harry. 

_XXX_

Aberforth let them inside in silence. He showed them up to the room above the Pub that they had hidden in before, but he didn’t look at them or speak. 

“Do you have a Pensieve?” Hermione asked hopefully. The backpack rattled as she pulled it from her shoulders, the vials of memories inside clinking off one another, and she felt excitement buzzing under her skin at the thought that soon she would know exactly what Harry had once been to the Dark Lord. She didn’t think he was dead. But that was simply a gut feeling and the fact that Harry’s body had been wearing a different set of clothing. That didn’t prove that Harry was alive. She couldn’t justify allowing her friends to break into the Ministry and risk death if she wasn’t sure that Harry was alive, if she couldn’t be sure, if she couldn’t prove to them and herself that there was still something to fight for. 

But these memories might. 

Aberforth gave a soft sigh, before moving to one cupboard and pulling out a medium sized bowl that was almost overflowing with silver. “It’s not as fancy as my brother’s, I’m afraid.” He told them simply, and left the room. They could hear him moving around downstairs, barricading the door and the windows, and pouring himself a drink. He was probably waiting for the Death Eater interrogation that they were all sure was coming. 

“We can’t stay long. It isn’t fair if Aberforth gets into trouble because of us. He’s done so much for us already.” Hermione began taking the vials out of her backpack. Ron helped Ginny into a chair, before nodding half-heartedly. “I won’t be long,” she told them, pouring the first memory out and then allowing herself to fall into it. 

“They were lovers,” she breathed, disgusted and aroused all at once as she emerged from the very last memory. One of them had been from Anathema’s point of view, had been his memory that he had shared with his Professor, and it was more intimate that the memory of whoever had walked in on them having sex (for surely Dumbledore must have taken the memory from someone else, and not walked in on them himself?) 

“What?” Ron asked. 

And because Ron and Ginny didn’t know about Anathema, who had loved Voldemort and been loved despite all of Hermione’s soul crying out that it was impossible, and who had been murdered brutally by his lover, Hermione told them the other thing she had realized. “Harry was a Horcrux. Voldemort accidentally made him a Horcrux when he tried to kill him, when Harry was a baby. So even if Harry was hit with the Killing Curse, it would only destroy one soul! As the larger portion of a soul, Harry would have survived!”

“Are you sure?” Ginny breathed.

No, she wasn’t, not completely. But she believed after watching those memories of Tom and Voldemort and Harry and Anathema that the Dark Lord couldn’t have been stupid enough to repeat his worst mistake a second time. So instead of saying that, because it would have made no sense to her friends, she said, “of course! I’ve done a lot of research on Horcruxes, but you wouldn’t know, because you were too busy bitching and running away to Shell Cottage!” Hermione narrowed her eyes, briefly angry as she remembered Ron running out on her and Harry. But he had come back to them, and so she let it go. “We need to leave,” she told them both sadly, “but I don’t know where would be safe.”

“Shell Cottage!” Ron shouted. 

“Oh I’ve forgiven you for that, Ronald. I was just saying. Honestly.” Hermione rolled her eyes at him and he shook his head furiously. 

“No,” he said, “I meant we can hide at Shell Cottage. It’s unplottable, and I doubt You-Know-Who even knows it exists and we were safe there before, right?” 

“Actually,” Hermione breathed, “that’s not a bad idea.” 

She gathered her friends around her, holding tightly to each of their shoulders, and she closed her eyes, trying to picture the cottage and the cliff-top and the sea that Harry had loved to listen to. They were going to save their friend, she promised herself. But first they had to save themselves. 

With a crack, Hermione side-apparated the three of them out of the Hogshead, and out of Scotland. 

The Death Eaters hadn’t noticed them leave. 

And Bill and Fleur hadn’t noticed them arrive, because of course, they were probably being held prisoner at Hogwarts, but Hermione didn’t mention that to either of the Weasleys. Instead, she waved her wand and unlocked the door. Guiding the two redheads inside, Hermione looked once over her shoulder, watching as the sun finally crested in the sky. It was the start of a new day, the sun bright and warm and fully risen at last. 

But it was the end of an era. 

And what the new one would bring, Hermione could only wait and see and pray that they could stop it in time. 

**XXX**


	13. Chapter 13

Again, I completely forgot to update here I'm so sorry!

 

 **Words:** 4,913  
 **Chapter 13**  
May 5th 1998.

The resurrection stone tumbled over and over in his hand. The ring it was set in caught the light in the room, glittering and reflecting it back, creating white spots across his face and Harry’s. 

Lord Voldemort leant back in his chair, playing lazily with the Gaunt ring, his family heirloom, his old Horcrux. It was the same ring he had given to Anathema. He hadn’t been able to afford a promise ring, or an engagement ring if Arcturus had accepted his offer for Anathema’s hand, but Tom had been able to part with _that_ ring, and the piece of his soul contained therein. Anathema had accepted it eagerly, ravenously, touching and stroking the stone repeatedly as Tom slipped it onto his finger. Voldemort hadn’t known until recently that the ring functioned as more than a container for his soul. It was one of the three Deathly Hallows, and Anathema had wanted it desperately. 

Harry Potter had wanted it. Had owned it. 

Voldemort stopped playing with the ring, glancing away from it to stare at Harry’s relaxed face. The boy was still unconscious, having been spelled asleep three days ago, so that Voldemort could finalise his takeover of Hogwarts and the Ministry. Everything was running smoothly so far, and while there were small pockets of resistance they would be dealt with in time and with ease. Now, at last, after days of apprehension and desire, Voldemort finally had the time to deal with Anathema. 

“ _Finite Incantatem_ ,” he whispered, pointing the Elder Wand at Harry’s face. 

Harry’s eyes fluttered, opening and closing, eyelashes brushing off of tanned cheeks. He stretched, bear arms rising up over his head as his back arched, and Voldemort’s eyes travelled over his naked body hungrily. Harry seemed to realize he was naked at the same moment he realized that someone was watching him, because he jerked up off of the bed, legs tucked to his chest, stretching out his arm as if he were holding a wand. His hand was empty, but Harry held it out towards Voldemort anyway, scrambling awkwardly along his pillow until he was pressed firmly to the headboard. 

“Where am I?” His voice was raspy, unused to speaking for the last few days, and Harry swallowed convulsively, as Voldemort leant closer to him. 

“You are in Malfoy Manor. You were aware that I was living here, I believe. You even visited once this year.” Harry didn’t say anything, just watched wide-eyed, as Voldemort held up the ring and begun to twirl it over and over again. 

“That’s mine!” Harry hissed. He jerked forward, body moving without conscious thought, and Harry gasped, his free hand clinging to the headboard to pull himself back, away from Voldemort before the man could touch him. The hand that had tried to snatch the ring fell limply to his side. 

“It is mine now.” Voldemort said, red eyes fixed on Harry’s pale face. 

Harry flinched, turning away at Voldemort’s words. His body was tensed, preparing for the curse that would take his life for real this time, or for torture, or a slap. Surely, Voldemort was going to hurt him? 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” The Dark Lord said softly, as if he knew what Harry had been thinking. “I won’t hurt you if you don’t make me, child. If you behave yourself, then I won’t have any reason to do you harm, will I?” Voldemort waited, watching silently as Harry thought about it, and then gave a slow nod. “Promise not to do anything to anger me, Ahn- Harry. Promise you won’t try to escape.” 

Harry’s eyes narrowed. He had expected Voldemort to ask him not to attack him, or his Death Eaters, or to ask questions. But to escape? That had been the first thing to cross Harry’s mind. He had to escape. He had to see what had happened at Hogwarts and to his friends, there was a world out there relying on him, needing him. He had to fight and find a way back to them, where he could destroy Voldemort for good. The Horcrux within him was gone, and now he just needed the opportune moment. If he could make Voldemort angry enough to cast the Killing Curse, Harry could deflect it, and it would kill Voldemort, and he would never need to cast the curse himself. But Voldemort didn’t seem to want to hurt him, and Harry sighed as he realized why. 

“You know I was Anathema?” Voldemort didn’t answer him. 

Instead, he held out the Gaunt ring. “Promise not to escape.” No, Harry thought, he had to escape, had to get out of here, had to fight. “Promise not to escape, child, and I’ll give you the Ring back. It will be yours, forever.”

All of his denials and protests and reasons flew from his mind. All Harry could hear was ‘ring’ echoing within his mind; ‘hallows’, ‘hallows’, ‘hallows’, it was so close to him again, and he had only gotten to wear it for a moment before. This time Voldemort was offering him forever with his Hallow. Harry didn’t even think about his answer, before it was out of his mouth. 

“Yes.” 

Voldemort slid gracefully out of his chair, taking the two steps forward until he was leaning down over Harry. His pale hands came out, one grasping Harry’s wrist and bringing the boy’s hand up to his eye-level. The other pushed the ring forward, sliding it onto a bony finger, and then squeezing hard around Harry’s hand. Harry looked up at him, green eyes wide, and mouth parted just enough for his tongue to poke out and wet his lips. Voldemort watched, enraptured, as the tongue flicked out and back in, and bent his head for a kiss. Harry’s hand jerked in his grasp. Voldemort froze, staring down at Harry, his own face blank and eyes narrowed, and then he pulled back, stepping away from the naked boy on the bed and leaving the ring on Harry’s finger. 

“I have missed you, Anathema,” Voldemort whispered, as he walked out of the room. And Harry was left alone. 

_XXX_

May 11th 1998. 

His room had a bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers and that one armchair that Voldemort had claimed as his own. Harry usually just sat on the bed. There was the door to the en suit bathroom, and the door to the corridor, but Harry had never been through that one. Voldemort hadn’t let him out of the room in the week he had been there, but he visited every day, with a newspaper and food, and on the second day of Harry’s imprisonment Voldemort had brought him clothes. 

“I have a Death Eater meeting later on today. I’d like to introduce you to them.” 

“They already know me,” Harry whispered, twirling the ring around on his finger. No one ever came to him when he played with the stone, and Voldemort had explained one day that to use the stone for selfish reasons was to defeat Death’s purpose. Death had tricked the elder two brothers, giving them gifts that would backfire onto them, and only the third brother had been clever enough to cheat Death, and even he had died in the end. Harry glanced down at his useless ring; it would help him live forever, but it would never show him his parents. 

“They think you are dead. The entire Wizarding world believes that to be so, and I feel that the time had come to ‘out’ you, so to speak, to my loyal followers.” Voldemort reached forward, grasping Harry’s arm tight enough to hurt, and only let go when the boy stopped fidgeting. 

“Not everyone is loyal to you.” Harry hissed, feeling mutinous. He had been unbelievably well behaved in the week he had been here. Voldemort had given him the ring and let him _keep_ it, and according to the paper there had been no more unnecessary Muggle hunts, and bills were being written to help less fortunate members of their world: werewolves, orphans, the poor. People that Harry could relate to: Remus, himself, the Weasleys… Voldemort was helping them, and all he wanted in exchange is for Harry to behave. It wasn’t much to ask. Not like Dumbledore, who had wanted his _life_ for the Greater Good. 

“Traitors have already been dealt with.” Voldemort levelled his gaze on Harry, and the teenager flinched, a flash of pain crossing his face as he thought of Snape, writhing and bleeding on the floor of the shrieking shack as Harry held his head still, pulling the silvery mist of memories from his mind. 

The Elder Wand was laid carefully onto the bed, beside Harry’s crossed legs. Harry looked down at it, at his wand, the wand he had mastered but which Voldemort had stolen first. 

“That’s mine,” Harry breathed, one hand reaching out to brush its tip. 

Voldemort still held the base, and he pulled it away just as Harry’s fingertips made contact. “It can be yours again,” he promised, soft and sincere, and Harry was a fool but he trusted the Dark Lord. He looked up, wide eyes bright and hopeful and Voldemort snapped his fingers. A house elf appeared, trembling and sniffling as it faced Lord Voldemort and threw itself to the floor in the lowest bow Harry had ever witnessed. “I want an Unbreakable Vow that you won’t harm my followers in any capacity.”

“And what if they attack me?” Harry breathed, thinking the offer over and finding it wanting. “Can I defend myself?”

“I will protect you!” Voldemort hissed, enraged at the thoughts that his Death Eaters would dare touch Anathema, Harry; what was his.

“And if you aren’t there?” 

Voldemort nodded his head in acceptance, allowing that Harry may need to attack in self-defence, and then he handed the Elder Wand to the house elf, who took it, waving it above their joined hands. Harry hissed as the magic ate its way into his skin, branding and marking him, binding him to a promise he didn’t think he could keep. Bellatrix would be there, wouldn’t she? And Fenrir, and how many others that had attacked his family? But it was too late to change his mind now. The magic disappeared, its job done, and the house elf handed the wand back to Voldemort and disappeared as well. 

“I believe this is yours now,” the Dark Lord grinned as he spoke, lips stretched wide over white teeth, which were pressed together. He looked rather terrifying, Harry thought, reaching out for his wand. It sung as his fingers closed around it, sparks shooting from the tip and lighting up the room, and Voldemort watched pleased with himself as Harry smiled over at him, relaxed and happy and trusting. For a second, it was like Anathema was really with him, back before all of the death and Horcruxes, back when he had been loved. And then Harry’s smile fell, and he clutched the wand possessively against his chest and waited. 

“What do you want?” He asked, when Voldemort just continued to stare at him. 

_You. Anathema. The world at my feet. Our child?_ He didn’t know what he wanted, he hadn’t known for some time now. Everything had been about defeating Harry Potter for so long that everything else had faded into obscurity. Now it was no longer about Potter. He had the world mostly at his feet. He almost had Anathema with him, at his side once again, and there was plenty more of Harry’s cherished possessions that Voldemort had to offer back so that Harry would rule by his side. 

“Be ready in an hour.” He said, simple, unemotional, but he kept his face turned away so that Harry wouldn’t see the longing that marred his features. He was a patient man. He had waited over forty years for this point in time, and he could wait a few more until Harry loved him once again. “I’ll send for you.”

Harry watched him go, feeling a momentary pang of sadness. It wasn’t that he wanted Voldemort to stay with him, because he didn’t. But there wasn’t anyone else and Harry didn’t like being locked up inside of a room, alone, unconnected from the world. Before, he might have had no problem with it, bar the loneliness, but ever since joining the Wizarding world it had been so hard to simply be alone that Harry had grown used to having company. And now he was alone again, and everyone he had cared about thought him dead. Voldemort was all he had left. 

Choosing not to dwell on his pseudo-Stockholm Syndrome feelings, Harry raised the Elder Wand, pointing it at the armchair Voldemort had just vacated and laughed delightedly as the chair flew up into the air with just a thought. This wand was stronger than his last. Stronger than Draco Malfoy’s wand had been. It was beautiful, and strong, and perfect and it was his. The Ring on his finger hummed as Harry used magic, over and over, filling up the hour that he should have used to get ready, to prepare himself to face the Death Eaters. 

But the meeting was the furthest thing from his mind. 

All that concerned him now, was that, once again, he had one more Hallow to go. And it was the one that was his by virtue of birth. Harry wondered if Voldemort had it, or if it was abandoned somewhere in Hogwarts, or if Neville had run away and kept it for himself. But it didn’t matter where it was or who had it, it was Harry’s cloak. He would get it back. 

_XXX_

May 20th 1998. 

Voldemort had only had a handful of meetings since Harry had been captured, but Harry had attended every one since he had received the Elder Wand. Apparently, he hadn’t been required to attend just the once in exchange for the wand; he had been required to simply _attend_ , as if he were one of those snivelling, subservient, worthless—

But no, he wasn’t, Harry knew he wasn’t. Anathema hadn’t been, and neither would he be. Voldemort might not love him like he loved Anathema, but the Dark Lord still seemed to have trouble differentiating the two of them, unless of course he was about to offer Harry a trade. Only then did he seem to be completely aware that Anathema wasn’t with him. Anathema wouldn’t have needed to be bargained with: Ana would have laid down his life if Voldemort had simply asked, and in a sense, he had. 

Harry looked down at the gathered Death Eaters. They were clustered together, squashed into the admittedly large room, like sardines in a tin, and it only served to remind Harry of how many of them there truly were. For so long he had thought that the Light would win because there were so many of them, but really, there had been himself, his friends, and the Order. Not even the Ministry had really been on Dumbledore’s side. And yet, all of these people, all of these creatures, worshipped the Dark Lord, as if he were worth… more than life. 

Harry turned his head to his side. Voldemort was seated upon his throne-like chair, and as always Harry was forced to stand by his side, instead of forced among his followers, which as degrading as it would have been was nothing to the feeling of thousands of eyes upon him, weighing him and judging him, tearing him apart with every glance. 

“Harry?” Voldemort whispered, soft and seductive and everyone in the room froze at the sound. They all waited, tense and expectant, and then the doors opened and one lone Death Eater walked into the room. Harry didn’t recognize him, but he did know the second person. Piers Polkiss was dragged into the room by the arm, mouth moving rapidly but Harry couldn’t hear his screaming. The Death Eater’s wand was clenched in his free hand, and the shoved the teenager towards the dais where Voldemort watched impassively. “I have another proposition for you, Harry.”

Harry felt he should have seen it coming. Voldemort never used his given name unless he was planning to trade for another piece of Harry’s soul. Promises of never escaping, promises to never harm his Death Eaters, and now what? Promises, unmeant, unfeeling promises to hate and torture Muggles? What else had he expected from a Dark Lord? Harry scoffed, feeling stupid for not having expected this, for being mildly surprised by this. The only thing that should have surprised him was that Voldemort hadn’t tried this sooner. 

“Magic is might,” Harry whispered to himself. He watched Piers scramble across the floor, climbing shakily to his feet, spinning around the room, searching for a sympathetic face. When he spotted Harry, he dived forward, arms outstretched, and Harry knew from the look on his face and the way his fingers were curled into claws that Piers did not expect any help from him. “What do you want, Voldemort?” 

“ _Crucio!_ ” Voldemort pointed his old wand, the one made from Yew and Phoenix feather, at the Muggle. Piers fell to his knees, arms on the dais and the rest of him flopping grotesquely across the ground. He slumped down completely, curled into a ball on the floor, as Voldemort lifted the curse. “Do not attack him again,” he commanded, and Piers only whimpered. “Help me torture this Muggle,” Voldemort breathed. He lowered his wand, turning in his chair so that he was facing Harry completely. His free hand came out, cupping Harry’s pale cheek (his tan fading the longer he was kept indoors out of the sun, away from the world). The thumb stroked lightly, from the edge of his mouth to the hollow beneath his eye and back down, a soft pressure, gentle and almost loving, and Voldemort looked at him looking almost like an angel if not for those red eyes and Harry wanted to say yes. He did, and that sickened him. “Cast just one spell, Harry. Just one.”

“What’s in it for me?” Harry asked. He felt the sinking feeling of shame in his gut, the cloying feeling of guilt sticking in his throat, making words difficult. But he couldn’t just say no. He didn’t know why, but he wasn’t able. A part of him hoped he would be offered the cloak, and to turn it down without hearing Voldemort out would be pathetically stupid. He needed the three Hallows to defeat the Dark Lord. And the Dark Lord was the only one in the position to give all three to him. 

Voldemort pulled a small bag from a pocket within his robes. He held the moke-skin pouch towards Harry. “All of your cherished possessions are in there, bar some. I have kept them separate.”

“For future blackmail material, I assume?” Voldemort chuckled, amused at Harry’s petulance. “Is the cloak in there?”

“No. It isn’t. You can have the cloak at a later time, Harry, once I have decided on something you can do for me to earn it.” 

“Earn it?” Harry hissed, tugging his face away from Voldemort’s touch. He nearly snarled at the Dark Lord, who simply looked back at him, mouth pressed into a thin line, unamused by his behaviour now but unwilling to harm his Anathema again. “It’s my father’s. It belongs to me!”

“And it will belong to you again. In time.” Voldemort reached into Harry’s pocket and pulled out the Elder Wand. He handed it to Harry, who took it from him, not because he was planning to torture Piers, but because he couldn’t stand the sight of someone else touching what was his. It was his, they were all his. Anathema had searched for them, had conquered one. And he had once mastered all three, until Voldemort took them away. And he needed them back, he needed them to defeat the Dark. 

“Give me the cloak. I’ll do it for the cloak,” Harry said. He snatched the pouch from Voldemort’s hand and chucked it back at him. It bounced off of the arm rest of his throne, and fell to the floor, rolling a little and stopping by Voldemort’s feet. The Dark Lord looked down at the bag, and back up at Harry, one eyebrow raised. “And only for the cloak.” 

Harry raised the wand, pointing it at Piers, who was curled up still, sobbing. The room was silent, tense as everyone waited for Potter’s punishment. But Voldemort didn’t raise a hand or a wand against him. Instead he smiled, relieved that Harry was still spirited despite the fact that they both knew he was little more than a prisoner in a gilded cage, but to know that Harry wouldn’t be broken, perhaps couldn’t be broken, released this pressure inside of him. His chest felt lighter, and his heart beat faster, and Voldemort thought of Anathema, who had loved him even as he died before him, because of him. Someday, Voldemort promised himself, Harry would love him just as much. 

“You have my word, Harry.” 

Voldemort promised himself, as he watched the red light shoot from Harry’s wand, that he would never make _that_ mistake again. Harry turned to him after he had cast the curse, expectant and impatient, and Voldemort stood. He took Harry’s hand in his, and ignoring the wailing Muggle and his astounded Death Eaters, he led Harry from the meeting room. Harry waited within Voldemort’s study, and grinned widely, excited and relieved and thankful as Voldemort handed him the Invisibility Cloak. He put it on immediately, feeling better than he had in months as its familiar weight settled around his shoulders and his feet and hands disappeared from view. Once the cloak was pulled up over his face, Voldemort cast a locking charm on the door, just in case.

Harry chuckled. “I promised not to escape remember,” the disembodied voice said, from somewhere behind the Dark Lord. 

“A promise is not the same as a vow.”

“If you want a vow, offer me something else.” 

Voldemort didn’t have anything else to offer him, because he had plans for the other items. He had known that Harry would accept nothing less than the cloak, and he had allowed for that, keeping the promises of his photo album and old wand for other things, but Harry hadn’t needed to know how easily he played into Voldemort’s hands. The Dark Lord smiled, genuinely and it lit up his face. He knew Harry would be watching him, surprised at the show of emotion, but unwilling to comment on it because it would have given away his location, and Voldemort just kept smiling, because it had reached the point where _Harry wanted_ something from Voldemort. Soon, he wouldn’t need to be the one to offer, soon, Harry would ask. 

He flicked his wand, and the door unlocked. But Voldemort didn’t hear footsteps and the door didn’t open, and so he smirked. 

_XXX_

May 29th 1998.

Harry had gone to the bathroom. He didn’t think he had been gone for very long, but obviously he had been away long enough. When he returned, Voldemort was in the room, waiting in his customary position, arms on the arm rest and legs crossed at the ankles as he lounged in the chair beside Harry’s bed. 

“Welcome back,” he greeted amiably, as if they were old friends. Voldemort waved his hand towards the bed, and Harry sat down on it, face pinched. “Oh now, now, don’t look at me like that. I’m not asking you to torture anyone this time.”

“What do you want?” His voice was quiet, but Voldemort smirked as he detected the curiousness that underlay the suspicion in Harry’s words. “What’s that?”

Voldemort looked down at the book on his lap. It was open, and Harry gasped as he spotted the picture that Voldemort’s hand wasn’t covering. It was one Hagrid had given him, of his parents bouncing the child version of himself between them, all smiles and pride, and life. It was one of the few pictures he had of them together. The majority of his album was photos Hagrid had scrounged up of the Order, where Harry obviously hadn’t been included and then photos of himself and in friends throughout school when his parents were dead. Voldemort pulled the photo out of its plastic protective cover and held it out to Harry. Lily and James smiled wider as they caught sight of their grown up son, looking down at the baby Harry and cooing, and pointing at their teenager. Harry smiled sadly, fingers hovering just above the photo, knowing that Voldemort wouldn’t let him touch it without something in return. 

“What do you want?”

Voldemort closed the album with one hand, stepping out of his chair and laying it down in his place. He left the photo on the bed, but Harry didn’t look at it. He couldn’t make himself look away from Voldemort, who was leaning down over him, intense and nervous, and if that didn’t scare Harry in itself then nothing would. 

The teenager flinched backwards, as Voldemort’s hands grabbed his cheeks, one on either side of his face. “Kiss me.” 

“W-What?” Harry stammered, but that was all he could manage, because the next thing he knew, Voldemort’s lips were on his, pressing them tightly together until Harry found it hard to breathe and he wrenched himself away with a startled cry. “What are you doing?” He shrieked, face flushed and heart hammering in his chest. There was a horrid stirring in his pants, a fire building in his lower stomach, and he felt sick at the thought that he had enjoyed that one forced kiss. 

“Kiss me, and I’ll give you the photo of your parents. I’ve looked Harry. There are only two of them holding you. Don’t you want them back?” Harry tilted his head up, pursing his lips. “Now, now, don’t act as if it such a chore. You were attracted to me once, remember, Ana. Enough of this lying back and thinking of England stuff, child. Kiss me.” 

And Voldemort stood where he was, arms hanging at his side, and the photo beside Harry on the bed, and the teenager knew what he had to do. He stood, pushing himself off of the bed, and his lips were on Voldemort’s before protests could stir in his brain. His tongue flicked out, pressing against the Dark Lord’s, and arms were around his waist, tugging them chest-to-chest, and Harry gasped into the other man’s open mouth. Voldemort shoved him onto the bed, lying down on top of him, still kissing. Once Harry had initiated, Voldemort had given up being submissive, and eagerly dominated their kisses. Arms pinned above his head, face flushed, and body spread out beneath him, Voldemort thought Harry looked perfect, just the way he remembered, though not nearly as naked. 

It hadn’t been planned, it hadn’t been time just yet, but Voldemort was unable to resist. “I’ll give you the entire photo album, all of the photos. I’ll ask my Death Eaters if they have other photos of your parents,” he whispered against Harry’s lips and throat, pressing kisses in between words. 

“What do you want?” Harry asked, his usual response, a mantra that had been engraved into his brain by the number of times he had whispered those words in suspicion and confusion, but never in lust. 

“Sleep with me. Be mine again, Harry.” 

“No.” 

One word, and the feeling of hands pushing against his chest, had Voldemort’s stomach sinking and heart pounding and head spinning. The rejection that encompassed that one word was too much, too little, all at once. Harry didn’t want him. _Anathema didn’t want him_. It was too much to take in, and anger bubbled within him, corroding all thought and sense and Voldemort hissed like a wounded animal, jumping up from the bed and pointing his wand at Harry, needed to defend himself, protect himself, to lash out and hurt and hurt and hurt until Harry was hurting too. 

“ _Incendio!_ ” He roared, eyes red and lips peeled back in a snarl, and the photo on the bed went up in flames. 

Harry screamed, reached out to it, to protect it and save it. But he grabbed a handful of ashes, and Voldemort’s spell caught his fingers, and Harry cried out in physical pain as well as mental. He gathered his hand against his chest, fingers spasming uncontrollably as skin peeled away, blackened and dead. Voldemort watched, hands shaking, wand tucked back into his pocket. He stepped towards Harry, wanting to take the hand into his own and kiss away the pain, to apologize for what he had done, to explain that Harry had _hurt_ him and he had been so unused to the feeling that he had reacted instinctively, like a snake or a cornered rat, going for the throat, aiming to hurt in return. But Harry looked up at him as he stepped forward, tears in his green eyes, and this horrible mewl left his mouth and he flung himself from the bed, crawling backwards on the floor and away. Voldemort watched as Harry scrambled from the en suit, and he waited until the door was locked. 

Then he left the room. There would be no apologises, no more kisses for some time perhaps never, but Voldemort would make it up to Anathema. 

**XXX**


	14. Chapter 14

Yeah. See the warnings in chapter 01, before reading this chapter. 

 

 **Words:** 7,723  
 **Chapter 14**  
June 3rd 1998.

The street was deserted. Hermione, Ron and Ginny clustered together, hidden in shadows, on the other side of the road. As Hermione whispered the Secret softly to herself, numbers 11 and 13 began to slowly slide away from each other, creating a space in between the two houses where Number 12, Grimmauld Place would spring into existence. The three teenagers watched with bated breath, hoping that the Secret hadn’t been passed on to a new secret keeper. But the house appeared, and Ron took a hesitant step out into the street, into view. 

“Wait, Ron!” Ginny hissed, reaching forward to pull him back into the shadowed alley. 

“There’s no one here,” Ron whispered. “Come on, quickly, before someone does turn up!” 

Hermione looked between them, biting down on her bottom lip in thought. She looked between her friends: Ginny, worried yet determined, and Ron, brave and rash, desperate to rescue his friend. She took a deep breath, because after all this was her idea, and she had to be the calm, logical one, the leader now that Harry was gone, the one that took the risks. “Ok,” she told them softly, “I’ll go first. I’ll wave to you once the door is open, and then follow one at a time. We don’t want to risk a trap and all of us getting caught in one go. It’s safer if we split up. Ginny,” Hermione sighed and stopped speaking. Ginny had narrowed her eyes, scowling as if she knew what Hermione was going to say. “Harry wouldn’t want you getting hurt, so you’re going last. Keep an eye out for Death Eaters. Wait in the threshold; don’t come inside, just in case they’re waiting for us.”

“That isn’t fair, Hermione!” Ginny hissed, placing her hands on her hips angrily. 

Hermione noticed how much Ginny resembled her mother, and wondered momentarily, whether Lily Potter would have done that as well; scowled and placed her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes when she couldn’t have her way. How could Harry love someone so like his mother, if that were the case, she wondered, when Tom Riddle had been the antithesis of everything the Potters stood for, the opposite of Sirius’s family in his treatment of Anathema; so different to Ginny. But Harry did love her, right? So it was Hermione’s duty to her friend to keep his girlfriend safe. 

“How do you think Harry would feel, or your parents, or your brothers, if I let you get hurt while rescuing him? How would I explain that to them!” Hermione ran a hand over her face, sighing unhappily. “Please, just do as I asked you to.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Ron nodded at her, a small thankful smile on his face; he didn’t want Ginny involved in any of this, he didn’t want to risk her being captured by Death Eaters or getting hurt, and that Hermione had been the one to say so and not him was a huge relief. “Good luck,” he mouthed at his girlfriend as she hesitantly made her way across the road. 

The street was still deserted, and the curtains and doors of the other houses all remained closed as Hermione made her way to Number 12. She pushed open the door, and it creaked eerily as it swung inwards. Her wand was in one hand, ready and willing to defend its owner, but the traps the Order had set for Snape never went off, and no one came running through the hallways, and even Walburga’s portrait stayed silent. If someone had already been here, then they weren’t making themselves known. 

Hermione waved over her shoulder, and Ron came jogging towards her. This was probably a bad idea, Hermione thought, but it was her only idea. Harry was their friend, and if the situations had been reversed he would have tried to save them. They least they could do for him was try. Ron nodded at her, pushing the door open wider; he stepped inside. Hermione followed him. 

Ginny watched them disappear into the house, looking mutinous. But then she thought about Harry; about his kisses; about his arms around her waist; about his fingers in her hair; about how it might feel to make love with him; and she sobbed lightly. She had thought he was dead, and for just a moment she had mourned him. But he wasn’t dead: Hermione was sure of that. Ginny knew Hermione was trying to protect her, and she agreed that she needed to live long enough to at least rescue Harry, so she made her way across the road, and waited in the threshold of Harry’s home. She didn’t go inside, but she did peer over her shoulder as a door closed behind her brother. 

Walburga Black was watching her from her portrait on the wall. 

“You’re his girlfriend?” The portrait asked voice uncommonly quiet. “He won’t be happy with that you know, the Dark Lord.” 

“What are you talking about?” Ginny hissed, her hands once more on her hips. She glared at the portrait, trying to make sense of what had been said. Voldemort wouldn’t like her as Harry’s girlfriend? “Am I not good enough for the Boy-Who-Lived? Why does You-Know-Who care anyway?” She spat with her eyes narrowed and a horrible rolling feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

“Of course you’re not. You could never compare to the Dark Lord, foolish girl!” Walburga laughed a loud hollow sound that echoed through the house. Hermione and Ron appeared from the kitchen, with Kreacher trailing behind them; Ginny looked up at them, confusion across her face. 

“Harry loves Ginny!” Ron shouted at the portrait. “You-Know-Who has no say in it!”

Walburga smirked cruel and delighted, teeth bared and lips curling. Hermione rushed to push Ginny out of the house before the portrait could speak. Whatever she had to say, the trio didn’t need to hear it. 

“ _Harry_ ,” she said with emphasis, and Hermione just knew that she had wanted to say ‘Anathema’. “ _Harry_ loves the Dark Lord. He just doesn’t know it yet.” Kreacher tugged the curtains closed over the portrait, and Walburga’s laugh trailed off as her face disappeared.

Ginny, half out of the house and half in the street, froze where she was mouth open. Ron looked sick; clutching at his stomach with wide eyes and a pale face. 

Hermione sighed again, which was becoming something of a habit she noted mildly, and turned to face her friends. “Don’t mind that hag. Who knows what He is doing to Harry, he could be being brainwashed or anything!” But she didn’t believe her own words. Why else would Harry not hate the man who had murdered his parents, his child, _himself_ , if not because of love? And Dumbledore had always said that Harry had a huge capacity to love others. “That’s why we have to hurry, and Kreacher has agreed to help us.” 

“But?” Ginny whispered, hands trembling as she brought them up to rub away the tears on her cheeks. 

“We all knew You-Know-Who was obsessed with Harry, and she’s one of His followers, of course she was gonna say rubbish like that!” Ron insisted after another short silence. “Right, Mione?” He looked at her, waiting for her to confirm his statement, to reassure him, because he didn’t believe his own words either. Hermione just nodded and held out her hand. 

The other two grabbed on, and after a deep breath Hermione apparated them all away. 

_XXX_

June 8th 1998. 

They had buried those who had died during the Battle of Hogwarts. The funerals had been held over the past week, but that night Voldemort had decided to host a joint-wake; where everyone, no matter what side they had been fighting on, could come to mourn their loved ones. It had nothing to do with him being sympathetic, Harry knew. Mostly, Voldemort just wanted to show off that he had won and likely parade Harry around like he was a trophy. 

Which was why it was very surprising when Voldemort had said he wasn’t invited. 

“But, my friends died.” Harry looked up with wide eyes, tears gathering at the corners. “My godfather died. I don’t understand…”

“You’re not going,” Voldemort had said simply, and turned to leave the room. 

The moment Harry was alone he didn’t get much time to think on Voldemort’s decision, because a house elf appeared. Kreacher bowed low, nose brushing off of the floor, and Harry dived forward to pull the elf into a hug. After Dobby’s death, Harry hadn’t seen Kreacher or Winky, and he had been worried about both of the other elves, but Kreacher was here, safe and alive and—

“Kreacher comes with message from master’s friends!” Harry gaped, sitting back on his heels on the floor. The elf paced in front of him. “They be wanting Kreacher to bring them to Malfoy Manor, but I be telling them no! No! The Dark Lord be here, and he hurt Master’s friends, and so I tell them no, Master. But Master’s friends be insisting I bring a message, and Kreacher is a good elf, so Kreacher does as he is being told. Master’s friends is looking for him, they is planning to rescue him. Master needs to not die till then!”

“Oh,” Harry breathed. There was warmth in his chest at the thought of his friends coming to save him. That they loved him and missed him and were thinking of him, but especially because they knew without needing to be told that he was alive. Harry had always thought he’d know instinctively if Ron or Hermione died, because they were a part of him; a piece of his soul he supposed, and shouldn’t they have known if he were dead as well? Harry grinned; they were coming to rescue him. 

Though in all honestly did he need saving? Voldemort hadn’t hurt him at all except for when he had burnt Harry’s hands, and honestly that was because Harry shoved his hands into a fire, not because Voldemort had tried to set him on fire. Apart from being a lecherous old man, the Dark Lord hadn’t really proved much of a threat to Harry in the month he had been there. “Tell Ron and Hermione not to do anything stupid. I don’t want them getting hurt!”

“Weasley and Mudblood and Master’s girlfriend is being rebellious, Master. They is not following the Dark Lord, they is planning to attack, to rescue Master. Master in need of rescuing? Kreacher will rescue Master!” The elf stood up straighter, hands held out in front of him, fisted, like a boxer and Harry gave a soft chuckle at the sight the elf made. 

Voldemort watched from the doorway, eyes narrowed. He waited impatiently on Harry’s response. 

“No I don’t need rescuing. He hasn’t hurt me, and you need to tell them – he hasn’t hurt me, so they don’t do anything stupid! Tell Ginny I’m sorry please?” Kreacher gave a slow nod. “You can leave now, Kreacher. Thank you.”

“Master be saying thanks,” Kreacher breathed to himself, popping out of the room. 

Harry sighed, throwing himself forward so that he was lying flat on the ground. He rolled over with another sigh, arms stretched above his head and legs straight and then he flew up into a sitting position as his eyes landed on Voldemort. 

“I’ll find them first,” the Dark Lord hissed menacingly. “You tell your elf that if he comes back. I’ll find them first, child. They won’t take you from me!” 

“Is that why you won’t let me go to the wake? In case someone tried to take me?” Harry asked calm and curious, despite Voldemort’s apparent anger. He pushed himself to his feet wobbling as he tripped on an untied shoelace, but Voldemort caught him; hands on his hips and arms around his waist. “Or someone tries to kill me?”

“I do not want you there,” Voldemort said.

Harry bit his lip, his eyes fluttering closed as he tried to think. Deals, their relationship revolved around deals. Surely there was something other than sex that Voldemort could want from him? “I want to go,” Harry breathed, before nibbling on his bottom lip, hoping to look seductive. He ran his hands slowly down the length of Voldemort’s chest, and the dark haired man raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Surely there’s something you want too? Let me go with you, let me say goodbye to my friends, and I’ll give you something back.” 

Voldemort smirked leaning down over Harry; teasing him, taunting him. If he hoped to cow Harry, he was surprisingly unsuccessful. Instead of backing down with a blush, Harry surged upwards; pressing his lips roughly against Voldemort’s, and the Dark Lord jerked back, shocked. He hadn’t expected Harry to kiss him without prompting, not that it had been a real kiss; just a brief crush of lips upon lips, but it was contact initiated by Harry. Voldemort smirked: Harry obviously wanted to go to the wake very much, and he could work with that. He had learnt his lesson about pressuring Harry into sex. Sex would wait until it was time. He already had an idea in mind; something different, something Harry wouldn’t say no to this time. But there were other things Harry could do for him in the meantime, things that Anathema had done, things he had missed doing.

Voldemort took hold of one of Harry’s hands. The other remained pressed over the Dark Lord’s stomach, fingers twitching slightly, as Voldemort brought the other hand lower and lower, until it was pressed over his crotch. “What do you think I want?” 

Harry’s fingers twitched again, that one hand closing around the bulge that had already formed, and Voldemort let go. He watched Harry, waiting for his refusal, but said nothing. Harry didn’t look at him; he was staring at Voldemort’s groin, at his own hand pressed over it, fingers still moving lightly across the bulge. 

“I want to go to the wake.” Harry whispered, peering up at Voldemort through his fringe. The Dark Lord just nodded, still waiting, still hoping, and then Harry slid down to his knees, his other hand pulling at Voldemort’s robes and his trousers, and the Dark Lord let his head fall back as cold air met his erection and Harry’s tongue peeked out to lick his lips. 

“You can go to the wake,” he breathed, his own hands tangling in Harry’s hair, pulling his head forward, his mouth closer, until his cock was nudging at Harry’s lips. Harry hesitated, unsure, nervous and inexperienced. He closed his eyes, remembering his dreams; recalling how Anathema had done this to Tom, and how Tom had done it back: mouth open and cheeks hollow, with spit and come on their chins as they kissed afterwards, trembling in each other’s arms. 

“Deal!” Harry said, taking a deep breath. One hand closed around the base of Voldemort’s cock, and his mouth opened wide, swallowing him inch by inch; Voldemort groaned at the feeling of wet and heat and _Harry_ that surrounded him. Harry sucked with more enthusiasm than skill, and when he tried to deep throat he gagged. He had to keep pulling away from Voldemort’s grip because the man seemed intent on choking him. But when Voldemort finally came it was with a cry of his name. Not Anathema’s. 

_XXX_

The wake was being held in the atrium of the Ministry. The ‘Magic is Might’ statue was still there, but it appeared dwarfed behind the banners and portraits that hung from the ceiling or lined the walls. The dead were grouped by families. All of the Weasleys who had died were to one side their photos clustered around each other’s, and grimly there were empty frames surrounding Fred, just waiting for someone to rebel against this new order. Tonks and Remus were stuck to a wall close by, side by side, along with Ted Tonks. Andromeda stood before that wall, hugging Teddy to her chest, as she cried quietly. 

Death Eaters milled around the room, nodding at Ministry workers and avoiding the Hogwarts staff while sneering at known Order members. The Weasleys, bar Ron and Ginny were sobbing in front of Fred’s portrait, and Harry smiled at the pictures of Molly’s brothers that were hanging there as well. 

It seemed Voldemort had included anyone who had died for this war, and not just those who had died during the final battle. And yet, and yet… he spun around, looking everywhere his eyes could reach, trying to see if he was wrong. “There’s no picture of Dumbledore.” 

Voldemort reached over to squeeze his shoulder harshly, silently telling him to shut up. Lucius kept talking as if Harry hadn’t interrupted them. With a roll of his eyes, Harry pulled out of Voldemort’s grip and made his way over to Andromeda. The two-month-old baby whined softly, as his grandmother whirled around, startled by Harry’s presence. 

“You’re alive,” she whispered, looking cautiously over to the Dark Lord. 

“Yeah,” Harry said with a shrug. “I’ve noticed.” He grinned then, rising up onto his tiptoes to peek at the baby. “Can I?” He looked so hopeful, and he was the child’s godfather, and Dark Lord or otherwise Andromeda couldn’t say no to the poor child who was obviously being held prisoner, if the behaviour of the Death Eaters were anything to go by that is. The moment Harry left Voldemort’s side, one of them had appeared behind him, and if that one moved on, another appeared. They were like a shadow, clinging to the boy, and Andromeda was thankful that Harry at least hadn’t noticed. 

She handed the child carefully over to Harry. “Teddy Lupin,” she said in a soft voice with a soft smile on her face. The child yawned in response and his hair turned from black to dark brown, to look like Harry’s, and bright green eyes looked up in curiosity. “Meet your godfather, Harry Potter.”

“I forgot he could do that.” Andromeda looked at him in confusion. “I mean,” Harry corrected, “I’d sort of forgotten that he was a Metamorphmagus.”

“Like Nymphandora,” the elder woman sighed. 

“She hated that name. If she was here, she’d probably punch you, you know.” That elicited a small laugh from the dead woman’s mother, and they both turned to stare at the portraits of Tonks and Remus and Ted, all of whom were watching Harry and Andromeda with sad smiles. 

“Your parents are over there.” Andromeda whispered, glancing worriedly at Voldemort. “Why don’t you take Teddy to say hello.” Harry nodded, walking in the direction she had sent him, completely unaware that Voldemort and Lucius had been heading towards him. 

Harry stopped before the Potters, who smiled warmly at their son. It took him a moment to realize that their portraits were hanging near the Black family’s pictures, and he gazed past Narcissa and Draco (who were watching him warily) to seek out Sirius’ picture. And there he was, glaring hatefully at the portrait of Bellatrix which hung beside him, and Harry stifled a chuckle as Sirius stuck out his tongue. 

“That’s my godfather,” Harry told Teddy. “He never grew up.” And so Sirius stuck his tongue out at him this time. 

Narcissa opened her mouth to say something, but stopped, turning her face away. Then she appeared to steel herself, and turned back to him, head high and back straight. “This wouldn’t have been possible if not for you. He’s been different since he realized who you were, dear. He did this all for you, you know.”

“Shocking. I find it hard to believe, you know, since I was banned from coming.” Harry rolled his eyes and looked back at his parents. 

Narcissa reached out to press her hand to Harry’s cheek. “The resistance hasn’t been as faint as you have been led to believe. He fears that they may target you. Any of them could be here right now, Harry… I- I don’t think he could survive losing you again.”

“He didn’t lose me,” the boy spat. “He murdered Anathema.” He stormed away from the Malfoys, and the Blacks and the Potters, and stomped across the room towards Andromeda. 

Voldemort turned his head towards Harry as the boy came back towards them. 

“Silence,” he hissed at Lucius, who was still ranting about what an abomination Teddy was; Voldemort didn’t think Harry would appreciate hearing it any more than Andromeda had. 

Harry was too much of a coward to face the Weasleys, especially without Ron there to have his back, and so he frowned in the direction of Fred’s picture. “I’m ready to go home,” he told Voldemort, moving to hand Teddy back to his grandmother. Andromeda made no move to take the baby. “Andy?” Harry questioned, holding the child out again. 

“Oh Harry, I didn’t know you had a baby!” The woman gushed, reaching forward to pull Harry and Teddy into a hug. “Congratulations!” 

Harry looked around confused. Remus’ portrait was practically foaming at the mouth and Tonks’ was crying pitifully, but Voldemort merely looked back at him calmly, with one eyebrow raised. Lucius’ lips curled in distaste as he glanced at the baby, and Harry scowled up at him, tucking the child closer to his chest protectively. And to think he had pitied that horrible man all year, felt sorry for him each time Voldemort punished him! 

“What’s going on?” He asked sharply. 

“Our Lord has decided that you should keep the mongrel-” Voldemort raised a hand, and Lucius shut up with a gasp. Harry had never seen someone stop speaking so fast before, well expect for Vernon that time Harry pointed a wand in his face and cried ‘ _Sectumsempra_ ’. 

“What he means to say, child, is that I owed you an apology. Consider this one.” He waved negligently at Teddy and Harry took two steps backwards, confused and afraid and overcome with this horrible feeling of guilt. “I took a child from you, if you recall. I took your parents from you.” ‘And their photo’, remained unsaid between them, but Harry knew that that was really what this was about. “You wish to have a family, and I am providing one for you. I don’t care who you claim as the father, but this is your child now.”

“You can’t just take a baby from someone else! This is Andromeda’s grandchild! You can’t expect me to take him from her!” Harry snarled angrily, stepping forward ready to attack the elder man; then remembered he was holding a baby and stopped, standing awkwardly with his words still ringing around him. 

“She will not miss what she cannot remember. I could have killed her, and taken the child, yet I didn’t. Be grateful, Harry.” People were staring at them now, at Harry Potter who was continuing to defy the Dark Lord and live; at the confused old woman, who stood beside them, watching the baby with longing; and Lucius who glared in disgust, and Voldemort whose rage was practically tangible. “What will you call him?”

“His name is Theodore Lupin!” Harry hissed, grinding his teeth together. 

“So be it.” Voldemort looked around, noticing the attention that seemed to have gathered. “It is time to leave.” Harry tried once more to hand the baby back, but Andromeda wouldn’t take him. 

Voldemort snarled hand clamping down on Harry’s shoulder, and he roughly tugged his lover towards the fireplaces that lined one side of the atrium. Teddy wailed, terrified by the rough treatment; Harry shoved Voldemort away from him but continued to trail behind him, bouncing Teddy softly to calm him down. “You’re good at that,” Voldemort whispered as Teddy fell silent. 

Harry ignored him. He stepped into the fireplace, clutching Teddy to his chest, and shifted over allowing Voldemort to stand beside him. Ron and Ginny appeared in the fireplace beside him, stepping out just as his turned green and whisked him away. He heard them crying his name, screaming after him, and then he was falling out of a fireplace in Malfoy Manor, into Voldemort’s waiting arms, and Teddy was crying again. 

The Dark Lord looked down at the baby, who had changed its features once more and now looked like a mix between them both. He could have been the child that Voldemort had murdered, and the Dark Lord scowled as he thought that. He turned away, ignoring the wails and Harry’s frantic shushing. 

“He is your responsibility now. I will send a house elf to buy the necessary… things, but you will take care of him.” Then he left them both there, standing and crying beside the fireplace. 

It wasn’t fair, Harry thought, making his way back to his room. A house elf trailed behind him, babbling about the things that babies needed. Harry didn’t listen to him, he could only think about Teddy and Anathema’s dead child, and what they would have called it had it survived. Should he have renamed Teddy, he wondered? He hadn’t asked for this, he didn’t want to raise children with Voldemort, he didn’t want to live with Voldemort, but… he sighed. There were no changing things. He was stuck here unless Voldemort dropped dead, and as much as he wanted his friends to save him, it was pointless. They couldn’t beat Voldemort, and Nagini was hidden somewhere; Harry hardly saw her and he certainly wouldn’t be able to destroy her without Voldemort knowing. The war was over. They had lost. _He_ was lost: it was time his friends came to terms with that. 

“Well, Teddy,” he said pushing open his bedroom door. There was a small crib set up beside his own bed, and Harry smiled widely at the sight of it. He hadn’t asked for this, and he was upset that Andromeda had been deprived of her grandson, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t happy to be the one taking care of his godson. He was going to be the best godfather– father, he corrected himself –there ever was. “Welcome home.”

 _XXX_

June 13th 1998. 

It had been a fairly simple plan, but a clever one too. It should have been a quick and easy rescue, but something had gone wrong. Their Portkeys should have left them in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, and Kreacher (as a Black family elf, as Narcissa Malfoy’s family elf) was supposed to apparate them from the dungeons to Harry and then out of Malfoy Manor. Something had gone wrong. Everything was chaos now. There were no more calm solutions, or simple plans, or easy to follow rules and procedures and just in case measures. Just panic. 

And panic they did. 

Ron whirled around, firing spells in all directions, and surprised Ministry workers dived to the ground, throwing themselves behind other people and statues. There were people screaming, people crying; Ginny was sobbing hysterically as Death Eaters spilled from the fireplaces and ran towards them. Hermione raised her wand, half tempted to raise it to her forehead and save herself, point it at her friends, one by one and then herself, to take the coward’s way out and avoid the torture she knew was coming. Instead, she pointed it Avery who was grinning widely behind his mask. 

“ _Reducto!_ ” She cried, but he ducked out of the way and shot a spell back at her. 

Ginny was still crying hysterically, and Ron was trying his best to defend them both, but it didn’t take long before he was stunned and bound on the floor; lying helpless at the Death Eaters’ feet. Ginny threw herself at one of them, hands curled into claws, but Mulciber knocked her back, slapping her hard across the face. His friends chuckled, as Ginny hit the ground, clutching her red cheek. 

“Oh no! I hurt Potter’s girlfriend! Oh no!” They mocked and jeered, and Ginny curled in on herself, still crying. 

Hermione was captured moments later, distracted by Ginny’s cry of pain. She was bound and dragged towards her friends. She met Ron’s eyes and turned her face away, upset and ashamed that her plan hadn’t worked. Why? Why hadn’t she considered that their illegal Portkeys would be unable to breach the Manor’s wards? Well, she had, but she had expected to be sent back to their starting point if that had happened. She had never considered their Portkeys rerouting them to the Ministry of Magic, straight into Voldemort’s grasp! 

“Bring them to the holding cells,” one Death Eater hissed. “You, there, inform the Dark Lord. You may as well tell Potter too, if you see him.”

The man snorted, “He won’t be far from our Lord.” 

A handful of the others chuckled, and Ginny looked over her shoulder at them as she was pulled away. That horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach was back; jealousy and anger and something like terror. Harry wouldn’t… right? He couldn’t, not with Voldemort; anyone but Voldemort, she prayed desperately. 

She tried to catch Hermione’s eyes, to silently ask what the elder girl knew because she _did_ know something, Ginny had finally realised. But Hermione purposely looked in every direction but Ginny’s. 

_XXX_

As it turned out, Harry was in his room with Teddy when Jugson came to give Voldemort the news, so it fell upon the Dark Lord to inform Harry of the whereabouts of his friends. The Dark Lord had known it would only be a matter of time, but he hadn’t expected them to be caught so quickly, but it didn’t matter. Whether it happened now, or later, it would have happened, and Voldemort would have gotten what he wanted in the end. He always did. 

“Harry,” Voldemort called softly, entering the room without knocking. 

“Shush!” Harry whispered nodding his head at the crib, at the child he had only just gotten to sleep. “What is it?” 

“I have another deal for you.” 

It was so blunt, said calmly, yet there was this sense of excitement surrounding the Dark Lord, and it set Harry’s hair on end. Something that had excited the man so much could only mean bad things, really bad things. 

“Can we take it somewhere else?” Again, Harry indicated Teddy. With a click of Voldemort’s fingers, the child’s appointed house elf appeared, prepared to look after Teddy in Harry’s absence. 

Voldemort led him through the hallway until they reached a room that Harry had never been in before. Harry had expected to be led to Voldemort’s office, but he was actually shoved through the threshold of a bedroom. It was sparsely decorated, and dominated by the insanely large bed in the centre of the room, and from the colour scheme alone Harry knew it to be Voldemort’s room. 

“Um?” Harry asked, looking around slowly. He wasn’t sure why Voldemort had brought him here, he had never been brought here before, but it was definitely better than having whatever argument they were about to have in front of Teddy. “What’s going on?”

“I did tell you, child,” Voldemort breathed, reaching out to cup Harry’s cheeks with both his hands. “I said I would get them before they could take you away.” 

Harry jerked away, a cry of denial already passing his lips before he had completely registered Voldemort’s words. “What have you done to them? What did you do?” He surged forward, smacking one hand against Voldemort’s chest before the Dark Lord reacted, catching both wrists and squeezing them until Harry went limp, sliding to his knees, as Voldemort released him. He looked up at the elder Wizard eyes red, welling with tears, and he took a deep, shaky breath and looked away again. He didn’t want Voldemort to see him cry. 

“They are not dead. I was considering it, but at the moment they are merely in a holding cell at the Ministry. I still haven’t decided what to do with them. Perhaps,” he reached down, carefully taking hold of Harry’s arms and pulling the boy to his feet. He nudged Harry back, guiding his movements, until he fell onto the bed, sprawled with his legs spread and his mouth open in surprise. “You may help me decide.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes, wondering what Voldemort meant. The unasked question was answered, as Voldemort climbed onto the bed to kneel between Harry’s spread legs, bending down over the boy to press their mouths together. 

“You can’t deny you want this, Harry. Give in to me. Just give in, and save your friends in the process. It is not much to ask. It will be pleasurable for you; I promise I won’t hurt you. You could save their lives; what are three or four years in Azkaban for breaking and entering in comparison to death? What is that compared to sex?” He paused, leaning down to press soft kisses across Harry’s jaw and throat. The boy trembled beneath him; deep, rasping breaths leaving him as his fingers slid across the sheets searching for something to ground him. 

“It won’t hurt?” Harry whispered, tilting his head back to allow Voldemort more access to his neck. Hesitant fingers wrapped around black strands of hair, and Voldemort smiled against his lover’s neck. 

“I won’t hurt you again,” the Dark Lord said. Whether or not he would be able to keep his word was another matter entirely, but Harry knew that at that precise moment, Voldemort had meant what he said. 

“And you won’t hurt them, or kill them?” Voldemort nodded, agreeing to Harry’s terms, his fingers moving ahead of their words and already unbuttoning Harry’s shirt. “Ok then.” 

The moment Harry gave his consent, Voldemort concentrated and without the use of his wand or words he vanished both of their clothing. Manually undressing would have taken too long, he had waited more than fifty years for this moment after all. 

His mouth was on Harry’s skin, his fingers were pressing against every inch of him they could reach; their legs tangled together. Harry lay beneath the Dark Lord, panting and moaning; fingers reaching out to grab hair or shoulders or arms, nails biting into skin as his back arched with pleasure. Voldemort’s fingers moved inside of him, slick with lubricant. Harry cried out as they brushed against his prostate; stars shooting inside of his mind, colours exploding and swirling; and then there was a mouth on his cock, wet and warm, and Harry screamed, completely overcome. He had never done anything like this: just kissing and some light petting. All he had to compare this too were Anathema’s memories, but this, this was real and so much more intense, bright and loud and wonderful, and Harry arched his back again, willing Voldemort to touch him some more. 

Harry hadn’t pegged Voldemort as a compassionate lover. To Anathema he had been, yes, but the man had changed so much since then, in so many ways, that Voldemort and Tom really could be considered two completely separate entities. Harry had had no way of knowing if it would have been the same between them; it had been one of the reasons he had resisted so strongly, the refusal to submit, to whore himself to the Dark Lord: his fear of being nothing more than a willing body, used and discarded and forgotten. He didn’t want the Dark Lord to love him like he had loved Anathema, but he didn’t want to give himself up, his virginity up, to someone who couldn’t care less about him. If Voldemort had just wanted sex, there were others who would be willing, so there was no reason for Harry to give in. 

But this: the attention and touches and kisses; the affection, the desire; Voldemort’s whispers of his name; the slick of their skin against skin; of lube and saliva and sweat against him; hands interlaced as Voldemort arched into him, pushing, pushing as Harry gasped with pain, as Voldemort soothed him with kisses. It was all so unexpected, like nothing Harry could have imagined when he thought of giving in to the Dark Lord’s advances. Saving his friends’ lives was more than worth this, but if he had known… if he had known that Voldemort was capable of caring for _him_ , Harry would have submitted so much sooner. 

They came together, hips meeting thrust for thrust, and Voldemort hovered over Harry, hands by the younger man’s head. They rocked together, panting, moaning; occasionally raising or lowering their heads for quick messy kisses. Harry mostly kept his face pressed to Voldemort’s throat, teeth grazing and tongue tasting; lost in incoherent thought and pleasure, lights flashing behind closed eyelids. Voldemort looked down on him, his Harry, his Anathema; red eyes softened, face slack with pleasure, his hips jerking involuntarily as he drew towards his orgasm. Harry came first, Voldemort’s hand clenching around his cock, stroking it swiftly, pulling in time with his thrust. Come spilled into his hand. Voldemort gave a groan, as a familiar tingling, coiling pressure grew within his belly and he sighed against Harry’s parted lips, finding release within the younger boy, coming undone from the inside out. 

They rolled apart, sweaty and satisfied and Harry hummed lightly as Voldemort separated their bodies. The Dark Lord gave a soft snort as Harry moved to slide from the bed, his arm shooting out to catch a thin wrist. “Where do you think you’re going, child?” 

“Bathroom?” Harry asked, more than replied. “We’re not going to the Ministry like this right?” He wriggled slightly, uncomfortable. “I’m sticky!” 

“We are not done yet.” Voldemort said, sliding across the sticky sheets towards his lover. “You have three friends. You have only had sex once.” Harry’s eyes went wide, pupils blown and Voldemort could practically smell the arousal that exploded inside of the young Wizard. But there was also shock and fear. “I’m not going to hurt you, or force you, Harry. If you wish, you can pick one friend, one that will survive, and I will simply rid the world of the other two. Is that fairer?” 

“NO!” Harry jumped forward, reaching for Voldemort and ended up falling into the man’s lap. Voldemort tugged him closer, shifting their bodies so that his cock was pressed against Harry’s arse, and the child’s wriggling only served to arouse him quicker. Harry blushed, realizing the effect he was having on Voldemort’s body, and with a nervous glance at the Dark Lord, he wriggled purposely, pressing himself down onto the erection. That was all the encouragement Voldemort needed; Harry had effectively given permission. The boy found himself on his back, legs spread, in the same position he had been moments ago. Voldemort was above him again, inside, above, all over him, with the same passion and desperation that he had displayed already, and Harry was lost in it all, overcome and undone. It was too much, too little, too soon; more than he could handle and yet he wanted more. His fear and shock had been momentary, as he wondered whether Voldemort would go back on his word, whether Voldemort would be sick of him after this, taking all he could while he could and then pushing Harry aside. But now Voldemort was warm and heavy and his, and Harry couldn’t wait to work off his debt for the life of his third friend. 

He came into Voldemort’s hand again, but this time the man licked his fingers clean before succumbing to his own orgasm. Harry watched him, enraptured, wondering what he tasted like and whether Voldemort enjoyed the taste, enjoyed Harry. 

They pulled apart, smiling and panting and Harry rolled towards Voldemort, willing. It was the Dark Lord who stood first this time, moving from the bed to the en suit bathroom, leaving the door open invitingly for Harry. 

“Get cleaned up, child. It is time to go to the Ministry.”

“But,” Harry stuttered, obediently rising from the bed, “I still owe you?” His brain was hazy, and his skin tingled with the memory of Voldemort’s touches, and his arse burned when he walked, sending shocks of pain and pleasure shooting up his spine. A touch of Voldemort’s wand to the curve of his spine stopped the pain, but Harry was left shifting awkwardly, remembering the pleasure.

“No, you don’t, child. Believe me,” the Dark Lord looked almost sorry as he said that. Perhaps he had wanted to have sex again, but they didn’t have time? Or there was something Voldemort wasn’t telling him? Harry snorted as he realized. One of his friends had escaped, one of them had survived, and Voldemort had fooled him into believing that all three were in danger. 

“Cheater,” Harry said with a grin. Though he did wonder why Voldemort would lie and not go through with claiming his stolen prize. At this point, Harry wouldn’t have minded. He had been sore, but he would have willingly spread himself again for the Dark Lord’s desire. And wasn’t that something, Harry thought, as he ran a wet cloth over his skin. He went from being afraid of becoming a whore, to willing acting and thinking like one with no prompting from Voldemort, there was no threat to his friends now and yet he wanted to throw himself at the elder man and beg for sex, beg for his touch. Maybe it _was_ Stockholm Syndrome? No, Harry thought with a chuckle, Ron had been the same after losing his virginity, unable to get enough of sex; so had Dean, and Seamus. It must be a guy thing, Harry mused, and even gay guys were vulnerable. He grinned at the Dark Lord, shaking himself from his thoughts. “I’m ready.”

 _XXX_

There was a fog over the Ministry. Not a real fog, of course, not inside. But Harry imagined that he could see it, swirling around the heads of the people inside, weighing them down, keeping them silent and unnerved. They tensed and moved out of the way as Voldemort walked passed them, they stared at Harry confused and afraid, and the fog swirled faster as their emotions warred within the people. It was like a shadow, a disease; fear, and nervousness, and anxiety, breeding and swelling, like Dementors in their midst. And Harry knew that something was wrong.

Three prisoners were dragged towards them. He and Voldemort waited side by side, surrounded by Death Eaters, and a handful of Ministry workers. 

Three friends were brought towards them. 

Three. 

Harry still owed Voldemort for one. Confused, he looked up at the Dark Lord, eyes narrowed. The man hardly expected Harry to have sex with him in front of all these people, did he? Voldemort met his eyes, non-repentant, and not at all lustful. There was some other emotion there: regret, Harry realized, watching detachedly as Voldemort raised his wand. He should do something, he dimly realized, move or protest or defend his friends, but instead he stood there, staring dumbly as green light shot towards Ginny’s bound form. She collapsed, lifeless, to the ground and Voldemort lowered his wand, refusing to look at Harry. 

He had likely alienated the boy again, pushed him too far, too hard, but eventually Harry would give in to him again. But the girl, the threat, had to be eliminated. Voldemort could admit to himself that he was jealous and afraid of her, that Harry might think of her when they were together, would imagine a life with her and without him, and it was something that he refused to contemplate for the rest of his life. Now she was gone, out of his life, and her memory could be no threat to his physical relationship with Harry. 

Fists were beating at his chest, and Harry was crying and shouting, beating at him half-heartedly as his shoulders shook. “WHY? WHY?” He screamed, and Voldemort caught his wrists, pulled him close to his chest and bent down so only Harry could hear his response. 

“Because you love her.” The Dark Lord whispered against the shell of Harry’s ear, lips pressing lightly to the flesh that pulled away from him as Harry jerked in denial. “And not me.”

He pulled Harry away from the others then, leading him back towards the fireplaces. Hermione and Ron, bound between the Death Eaters, were crying too, wailing and sniffling, all of their anger burnt out unnoticed by Voldemort. 

“Take them back to their cell. They will stand trial at a later date.” He turned from them, dismissing them all. “I have other matters to attend to.”

Ginny’s body remained where it had fallen on the floor, as no one had been ordered to remove her, and Nagini was not there to eat her. The portraits had all disappeared from the walls of the Ministry, having been removed after the wake, but Harry could still remember the two empty frames that had surrounded Fred Weasley. One for Ginny… and one for Ron? And what of Hermione, he thought, had Voldemort planned all along to kill them, no matter what Harry did? Or just Ginny? Just his girlfriend? Or did he think that Harry would chose to sacrifice Ron, have sex once and save Hermione? 

He gave a soft cry, his hands coming up to press against his mouth, trying to stifle the noise. His legs collapsed beneath him, and he crouched on the ground, shoulders shaking, but no more sounds left him. Voldemort watched, unsure, but unrepentant. He did not regret killing the girl, but it hurt him to know that he had once more hurt his Anathema, and only hours after he had promised he would never hurt the boy again. 

But she had to go. She couldn’t remain alive; a threat, a distraction, a constant reminder of a life without Voldemort or Tom Riddle. He wouldn’t have been able to bear it. 

Harry would get over it with time. He had forgiven the deaths of his parents, though they were meaningful and Ginny’s was meaningless; but he would forgive. Anathema had always forgiven him, and so Harry would too, in time. 

Voldemort scooped the boy into his arms, easily lifting him from the floor. He carried Harry into one of the fireplaces, clutched like a child against his chest and he called out, “Malfoy Manor,” and waited for the green flames to take them both away. 

**XXX**

TBC. Review?


	15. Chapter 15

**Words:** 4,013  
 **Chapter 15**  
July 2nd 1998.

It was the anniversary of Anathema’s death. How many years had it been, Voldemort wondered; too many years. Fifty-one if his maths was correct. Fifty-one years since he had plunged a knife into the man who loved him, since he had tried to cut their child from Ana’s stomach. Fifty-one years since he had made the biggest mistake of his existence. 

It hurt him to think back on it, to remember the slick of blood on his fingers, streaked across his face as he calmly brushed his hair out of his eyes, the sudden terror as he realized that Anathema wouldn’t survive the make-shift abortion, that he would lose his lover. He could still see Ana lying before him, skin pale and grey, eyes glassy, smiling at him sadly. His mouth had moved, whispering “I love you, I love you” to a boy who could no longer hear him, who would never respond to him. Voldemort opened his eyes, pushing his memories back into the recesses of his mind, where they could no longer hurt him. 

Out of sight, out of mind. Wasn’t that the saying? 

But Anathema wasn’t out of sight, Voldemort reminded himself. It had been almost three weeks since he had been alone with Harry Potter, since he had spoken to the boy who lately had begun talking to his Death Eaters addressing them instead of him as if Voldemort were not even in the room. Harry was angry, he knew that, hurt and upset, but he was alive. Anathema was alive. And with all the Voldemort owed his murdered lover, he could not fault Harry this one temper tantrum. 

Today was different though. For the past nineteen days, he had been willing to allow the boy his space, to reluctantly allow Harry to avoid him and hide within his room with the child, to ignore him and slight him. But not today. Today was the anniversary of Anathema’s death, and it was the first one to pass where Voldemort knew that his Ana hadn’t stayed dead. The irrational fear that Harry could die again this day was enough to force Voldemort to seek out his lover, to force his presence on the boy who probably despised him once more. 

Lord Voldemort was supposed to be at a meeting, but he had cancelled it. Sent his Death Eaters home to their families, or to whatever scum they chose to associate with in their free time. And he stood now, hovering uncomfortably outside of Harry’s bedroom door. 

The door was open, and Voldemort watched as Teddy wriggled on the floor. The child was only almost three months old but he was making efforts to commando crawl towards his new father. Harry was laughing, sitting crossed legged with his back to Voldemort, his arms stretched out towards his child. “Come on, Teddy bear. You can do it.” 

Voldemort allowed his eyes to slip closed, but he continued to listen as Harry teased and tickled the baby; he lost himself in the sound of Harry’s voice and the occasional gurgles of the happy child. He could see them, so clear and defined, as if they were really seated before him instead of mere memories and imaginations of his troubled mind. Anathema, crossed legged on the floor of Tom’s little London flat; his torso and legs longer than Harry’s, his skin paler, hair darker, the glasses gone, his mouth shaped like a bow as he offered their child a soft smile. And the child… Tom thought about the child, their child. Would he be as loud and noisy as other children were, or would he have been more like a young Tom, studious and silent? “Say I love you Daddy, say I love you,” Anathema breathed, scooping the dark haired, blue eyes baby into his arms. They turned to face Tom, who waited at the threshold of his flat with bright eyes and a thumping heart. “Tell your father you love him.” Anathema’s voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper, as he waved the baby’s pudgy fist at Tom. “I love you Daddy,” he said, pretending to be their son, “I love you also,” he added as Tom remained silent. 

“Teddy bear, I knew you could do it. I love you! Who’s my clever little boy?” 

Voldemort’s eyes snapped open. Anathema was gone. Their son was gone. He was back in Harry’s bedroom at Malfoy Manor, where Teddy had somehow managed to drag himself less than an inch towards Harry, where Harry was exclaiming excitedly about his genius son, tickling the baby’s stomach proudly.

Voldemort shifted, and Harry caught his reflection in the window. The teenager turned slowly, eyes narrowing as they landed on Voldemort’s face. But when their eyes met, there were tears in Voldemort’s, and the sight of them was the only thing that stopped Harry turning his back on the other Wizard. Instead, he pulled Teddy into his arms, and stood slowly, almost stumbling over a discarded toy. Voldemort grabbed his arm, steadying him. They stood like that for a moment, silent, uncomfortable, before Voldemort reached up to gently touch his eyes. His fingers came back wet and he looked at them, uncomprehending; he had never cried before, never, not in his entire life. Perhaps he had mourned and wailed as he rocked Anathema’s corpse in his arms, but even then he hadn’t shed a tear. Wet fingers touched Harry’s cheek softly. 

“I could have had this,” Voldemort whispered, his forehead pressed to Harry’s. He looked down on Teddy, just as the boy yawned and threw out a fist to catch Voldemort’s robes. “This could have been mine.” He, and Ana, and their child. A family, his family: that could have been his life. 

“You still could, you know.” Harry offered him a shrug and a soft smile when their eyes met again. “You could help with Teddy. I can’t take care of him on my own, you know. Someone needs to be the responsible and strict one, because I’ll probably be crap at that.” 

Voldemort chuckled softly. He untangled Teddy’s fist from his robe and took a step away from Harry. “I won’t be much good at it,” he warned, even as he moved to take a seat on the floor, his legs folded beneath him. 

Harry watch as Voldemort hesitantly reached for a rattle, the same toy that had nearly tripped Harry. He sat opposite Voldemort, crossing his legs again, and lay Teddy on the ground. Voldemort shook the rattle, and Teddy giggled. 

“You’re not doing too badly,” Harry told him with a grin. 

Voldemort looked over at him, a frown on his face. He had been fantasising about ‘Tom and Anathema’ for so many years now, it didn’t seem right to think of his life in any other sense. But ‘Voldemort and Harry’ sounded just as pleasing when he whispered it softly to himself. Harry and Ana were the same, essentially. Different people, but made up of the same things, ideals, desires. One boy for who he had been, for Tom, and one for who he was now. Fate had been kinder than he deserved, sending Anathema back to him, and he had already messed it up once. No more, he vowed mentally to himself.

Voldemort allowed a smile to cross his mouth, and he offered it to Harry first and then Teddy as he hesitantly reached forward to touch the child’s stomach. Teddy reached out for his hand, squeezing one finger for dear life, and Voldemort let him, because it was making Harry happy. 

_XXX_

July 10th 1998. 

Courtroom 10 was as it ever was. Cold and filled with the noises of people shifting in their seats. Neither Hermione nor Ron had ever been there before, but she thought back on the courtroom they had ambushed Umbridge in, thought back to the chill that permeated its walls and the way noises seemed to be magnified and silence swallowed by shadows. This courtroom as much, much worse. There was something oppressive in the air, damaging and terrifying, and yet the Dementors were not present.

Hermione stared defiantly at the assembled crowd of Witches and Wizards, seating before her, with Voldemort sitting dead in the centre. The spectators whispered furiously at her back, and by her side Ron trembled in anger and fear with his hands chained behind his back. She was similarly bound, because even though she was inferior due to the fact that she was a Mudblood, or so she had been told, Lord Voldemort recognized that if any of the two of them were to escape, it would be her. She was the clever one. 

She tried to appear brave. Tried to be strong. She even reached to the side, straining the muscles in her left shoulder as she tried to catch Ron’s fingers in her bound hands. But when their sentence was passed down, she cried. 

“…Three years in a medium security cell in Azkaban Prison for the combined offences of breaking and entering into the Ministry of Magic, London, and for the attempted break-in of Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire. Case adjourned. Bailiff!” A short, stocky Wizard approached them from the corner of the room. With his wand pointed in front of him, he herded the two teenagers out of Courtroom 10. 

Hermione tried to ignore the words reverberating in her brain, tried to forget the sound of Minister Thickenesse damning them both, but the words were there. Loud, and terrible, continuing in a horrific loop within her mind, over and over, three years in Azkaban. She cried harder as she passed the stand where the spectators waited and watched, throwing her anger, judgemental glances. Because there he was. Her friend, her brother in all but name and blood, and he simply watched them take her away. Harry didn’t try to save them.

 _XXX_

July 30th 1998. 

It was supposed to just be an ordinary day spent as an ordinary family. Voldemort was still adjusting to the idea of even being a fake-father to any child, let alone one Harry had claimed for himself and who kept changing his appearance to look like _their_ child. Harry had decided to take a leaf out of the Dursleys book: if they pretended they had no problems, then no problems would exist. Voldemort would spend awhile pretending that he was happy with a child, and Harry could pretend that life was sane for a day at least. They were going for a picnic. They had food with a cooling charm on it, they had flasks of conjured tea, and Harry had a blanket slung over one arm, as he cuddled Teddy against his chest with the other. 

Unfortunately, Harry was anything but ordinary. 

Harry wasn’t sure where he was, as Voldemort had apparated them to a seemingly randomly picked park, but when he found a spot that looked pleasant but where the sun’s rays could still reach, he handed the blanket to the Dark Lord. “Lay it here, would you?” He asked, shifting Teddy in his arms. Pain shot through his stomach, nothing too painful, but it was discomforting nonetheless, and Harry shifted Teddy again. It had been happening on and off for the past week, this cramping pain, and the occasional morning where Harry had fled from the bed to vomit in the basin or the toilet or a bucket, whichever he reached first. 

He and Voldemort had continued to keep separate bedrooms, and the Dark Lord had made no attempt to seduce Harry again, and so he remained unaware of Harry’s illness. 

But the pain was starting to make him feel sick now, and his vision started to blur a little around the edges. Without a word, Harry thrust the child at the stunned Wizard. On instinct, Voldemort reached for the boy, holding him awkwardly under the arms, as Harry pitched forward and vomited across their picnic blanket. 

“Harry?” Voldemort questioned, sounding panicked. He couldn’t do anything with a child in his arms, but he was more worried about his lover than he was the baby, so he laid Teddy gently in the grass and knelt by Harry’s side. 

“I feel sick,” the boy said unnecessarily. Then he slipped into unconsciousness. 

Voldemort tried to keep calm, he tried to think reasonably, tried to be sensible and logical and cold. But he could do nothing but wonder if Harry was going to die. It was fate, he decided cynically, as two of his Death Eaters appeared and took the child back to Malfoy Manor. Voldemort apparated Harry to St Mungos, uncaring that they were in a Muggle park, and Muggles might have seen them vanish. This was his fate, he thought again, as Medical staff ran tests on his lover. He was fated to never be happy. He was fated to loose Anathema. Again. 

He glanced at the boy lying unconscious in the bed and he whispered so that only he could hear. “I should have told you I loved you, Ana.” 

“My Lord,” one Wizard said hesitantly, unsure of how to approach the silent Dark Lord. 

“What is it?” Voldemort asked, though he didn’t really want to know. Anathema was going to die again, before his eyes once more, but this time at least it would not be at his hands. Still, Voldemort had no desire to know what was about to kill his Harry. 1

 _XXX_

July 31st 1998. 

Harry slept through the rest of that evening. When he woke, he was in Voldemort’s bedroom at Malfoy Manor and it was his eighteenth birthday. Voldemort was perched on the end of the large bed, at Harry’s feet, with one hand lightly running across the duvet. Harry smiled as Voldemort looked up at him, though he was frowning. 

“Sorry about that,” Harry said, shrugging as if him being injured wasn’t a big deal. “It’s never been that bad before, so I didn’t think it would ruin our plans. We can go today if you like. I’ll have a house elf bring some food, or you can and I’ll grab Teddy and-” Voldemort raised his hand, and Harry obediently fell silent. 

“You’re pregnant.” Voldemort stated flatly. He didn’t look away from Harry’s face, even though the boy lowered his gaze to his stomach, hands patting softly against the flat expanse of belly. Harry’s face was swamped with emotions, ranging from momentary fear, to worry, to excitement and joy and happiness, to love, and back to fear again as he looked up at the Dark Lord. They both remembered Anathema, pregnant and excited, moments from sharing his news with Tom before he was stabbed to death, as Tom tried to kill the baby. Harry’s fingers spread across his stomach, trying to cover as much of it as he could beneath the blankets and his clothes, wanting to protect his unborn child. He swallowed heavily, wondering and waiting for Voldemort to do something. 

Would he kill this child too? 

“There are a variety of choices to consider, Harry.” Voldemort’s tone hadn’t changed at all, still flat and emotionless, clinical as if he were a doctor speaking to an unknown patient. Some stranger, who didn’t care at all what Harry chose, just some guy who had drawn the short straw and was being made to give this speech, repeating everything the medi-Wizard had told him, but not really caring. 

But, Harry thought, at least he wasn’t angry. 

“You could put the child up for adoption, though it would be best to lie about the child’s paternity. It would be cruel if they child was shunned or abused because I fathered it.” Harry’s mouth dropped open. He had half expected Voldemort to refuse to be listed as the baby’s father, but to tell Harry to simply give it away? But Voldemort was talking again, and Harry was too shocked to interrupt. “There is a potion you could take of course. It would freeze the foetus in place, it would never move or grow or live. Many people choose this instead of an abortion but there are side effects. The medi-Wizard said that many women feel continuous nausea, but there are potions for that too. Or you could simply abort the child! Going through with the pregnancy and the labour only to give the child away seems frivolous, and there are simpler solutions, two of which I’ve mentioned.”

Harry swallowed back a gasp. He should have expected this really. After the way Tom had reacted to Anathema’s pregnancy, why would Harry have considered that Voldemort would be happy with his pregnancy, the way Harry was. Voldemort didn’t want this child. Voldemort could barely tolerate Teddy: he paid attention to Teddy for Harry’s sake. 

“You killed his child,” Harry whispered, sliding across the bed away from Voldemort. “And now you want me to kill mine?” 

“Then give it away!” Voldemort shouted. He jumped up off of the bed, pacing angrily, as Harry watched him warily. He didn’t like that Harry would look at him in such a manner, wariness, fear, uncertainty, all painted across the boy’s lovely face. And those hands, that had held him and touched him, were pressed firmly to Harry’s stomach, hiding it from Voldemort’s eyes. “I have no need for this child, Harry, I don’t need an heir. I still have one Horcrux left and I don’t intend to let Nagini be harmed, nor do I anticipate the loss of my own life.” He fell silent for a moment, thinking of his fears and his desires, and wondering which was stronger. “I have never wanted a child.”

“That’s a lie!” Harry hissed. He was crouching on the bed now, back against the headboard, with his legs tensed under him. He was ready to jump out of the way, to run and hide, if Voldemort attempted to hurt him. “You said, you said you wanted this, a family. We can be a family! We’ll just have one more child and I’ll be fat for a while but you can be all protective and domineering and I can keep pretending to hate it cause if I didn’t you’d stop and-”

“Pregnancies kill people.”

Harry nearly missed it. It was said so quietly that the boy had thought Voldemort was merely letting out another of his patented aggravated sighs; he had nearly kept rambling, trying to justify the continued existence of his baby. But they were words, Voldemort had spoken, real words, with real meaning, and Harry nearly started crying as he finally identified the crux of Voldemort’s aversion to his pregnancy. His and Anathema’s both. Voldemort was afraid of them leaving him, whether for the child, or because death would take them, as He took Tom Riddle’s own mother.

Harry relaxed into the bed again, shifting forward so that he was within Voldemort’s reach. It took everything he had to force himself to hold still as Voldemort reached out a hand towards him, settling it lightly over Harry’s own hands which still covered his stomach. This man, who had moments ago talked of killing their child, was now rubbing lightly at the skin that protected it, him or her, with a sadness about him that made Harry pity him more than fear him. 

“That was years ago, Voldemort. Years, and years; things have changed since then. Medicine is better, and we have magic too,” Harry added, solemnly, because of course Merope didn’t. “The medical staff at St Mungos won’t let anything happen to me, I’ve never even heard of someone dying there anyway! And I want this baby; I want to love this baby.” Harry paused, as Voldemort pushed lightly against his stomach as if trying to feel the parasite that dwelled within. Harry took his hands away from his own body, grabbing onto Voldemort’s free hand instead. “I want to love this baby… and you… but you need to give me the chance. Please don’t take my chance away?”

The Dark Lord’s breath caught in his throat. “Say it,” he breathed, unable to believe this was happening. 

“I love you.” Harry whispered back. They both knew he was lying, but Voldemort tilted his head back revelling in the sound of the words and the ache they created in his chest. 

“Say it again,” Voldemort ordered. He continued to pet Harry’s stomach and hold his hand even as he climbed onto the bed beside his lover. 

“I love you,” Harry lied, his face blank and guilt the furthest thing from his mind. Voldemort knew he was lying; he wasn’t doing anything wrong by lying to the man. Voldemort knew. Voldemort understood. 

“Say it again,” the Dark Lord’s voice broke as he spoke this time, a horrible whimper left his throat, and Harry had to close his eyes this time so he wouldn’t see what kind of expression crossed Voldemort’s face as he whispered ‘I love you’ again. “You will say it, once every day until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?” The hand pressed harder against Harry’s flat stomach, and the boy took the warning as it was meant. 

“You want me to lie to you?” He should have been angry or resentful, but Harry understood that fear made people act in incomprehensible, abhorrent ways sometimes. If there was anything Voldemort feared, it was death, and Harry understood that even with the Hallows there might still be ways for him to die. This pregnancy might be one of them, though Harry doubted it, but Voldemort’s fear was strong, a potent force of poison within the man’s mind, and Harry was afraid of the things Voldemort would do to fight his fear. “I love you.”

They sat like that in silence, as Voldemort did not request Harry to repeat the sentence again, and Harry didn’t see the point of lying unnecessarily. After a moment, Voldemort left the bed. He walked towards one of the presses within his room, and pulled something out of the drawers. Harry recognized it immediately; it was his photo album. For one horrible second, Harry thought Voldemort would destroy it, as some sort of twisted vengeance for Harry becoming pregnant in the first place, but instead Voldemort silently handed it over. 

“Happy birthday, Harry.” 

Harry nodded his thanks, not looking away from the pages he was flicking through, and missed the fond smile Voldemort bestowed upon him. If Hermione had seen it she would have known what it meant, and if Harry had seen it he would have compared it to the way Tom used to look at Anathema, even though he had struggled to say the words out loud. But Harry hadn’t seen it, and Voldemort still wasn’t able to say it, and so the moment passed unmentioned. 

Harry gasped, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. He stopped flicking through the pages, pausing on one page in particular. The caption read “July 1980: Lily, James and Harry Potter”, but where the picture should have been, the picture Voldemort had burnt, was one of Tom and Anathema in their school uniforms. It was black and white, one of those grainy old fashioned ones, but they both looked so happy, so in love. Harry reached out to stroke Tom’s cheek, but the picture didn’t move like the rest of the ones in the album and so he stopped. Instead he looked over at Lord Voldemort, who was watching his calmly.

“Thank you.” Harry said at last. 

Because while many would have taken it as a dig or an insult, Harry understood what Voldemort was trying to achieve. He was attempting to replace the family he’d stolen with another. Him and Tom… and now their baby. 

Voldemort nodded his head, accepting the gratitude graciously, and then he left the room. When he returned, he had Teddy pressed to his chest, and he lay the boy carefully in the centre of the bed, so that Harry could reach him but that he wouldn’t fall off the edges. Correction, Harry thought with a soft smile, glancing lovingly at the baby boy. Tom, and him, and _two_ babies. 

**XXX**


	16. Chapter 16

It's finished :) 

I just had three of my stories on FFNet deleted, one story for the second time since I joined the site... And am now considering moving over to Archive completely. Even though the reader response is better at FFNet, what's the point if the mods are just going to keep deleting all of my stats?!

 

 **Words:** 3,733  
 **Chapter 16**  
July 19th 2001.

It had been more than three years since Voldemort had managed to gain control of Wizarding Britain. Over three years since he had found his Anathema again, and it had been two years and five months since their son was born. The majority of his enemies had been killed or imprisoned three years ago. Some of those deemed to be of little threat to him were being released and either re-enrolled at Hogwarts or put to work in obscure jobs where he would never have to look upon them again. 

Hermione and Ron were being released that day. It hadn’t taken a lot of convincing for Voldemort to allow Harry to attend. 

In the past three years, Voldemort had mellowed rather well; that’s not to say that he wasn’t an evil, dictator, overlord, manipulative, possessive man, but once the threats had died down and his control over Britain had solified, he had begun to allow Harry more freedom. Mind you, that freedom ended the moment Harry entered his third trimester, up until Mallory was three months old. Voldemort wouldn’t allow the child out of their Manor until he deemed them fit for public consumption. They had moved into their own place once their son was born, but while smaller than Malfoy Manor, it was no less heavily warded, because after all Lord Voldemort was still a paranoid, anal-retentive mess the majority of the time. 

Harry had promised that they would all be safe, and Voldemort had agreed to bring his family to the Ministry. Plus, he could never pass up an opportunity to show them off. They were his crowning glory, his pride and joy, and as much as he gloated about his control of the Wizarding world Harry knew Voldemort would have been content to lose it all and live peacefully, just the four of them. Voldemort enjoyed the power, cherished it, in fact, gloried in it. Power and knowledge were everything to the Dark Lord, and he relished in the hold he had over everyone. But he loved Harry, and he would give it up if he were asked to. But Harry would never ask, because in all honesty Voldemort wasn’t a bad leader, he was fair, and just, and while some of his laws where outrageous they were popular. This was what Voldemort had been born to be, this was what made him happy. And Harry loved him too much to have him any other way. 

Harry waited patiently, flanked on either side by a young boy. Teddy, who was three years and three months old now, held one of Harry’s hands, calmly waiting for his ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’ to appear. On Harry’s other side, two-and-a-half year old Mallory Riddle yawned widely, rubbing at his eyes with his fists. Harry watched him with a soft smile, and then reached down to brush his fingers through the child’s black hair. Both boys were dressed like little purebloods, in hand-made tailored robes, and pressed white shirts and black pants with shiny shoes. And in comparison Harry felt rather shabby in his jeans and dress robe, but then Voldemort turned around and his eyes lit up in desire and Harry felt better. 

The prisoners who had been given shorter sentences, like Hermione and Ron for breaking and entering, and Luna Lovegood and her father for publishing anti-imperial sentiments, would be arriving from Azkaban soon. They’d be paraded through the Ministry, led to a meeting with the Minister for Magic, Adler Rosendale, and with Lord Voldemort, and then they would be sent home and forgotten as long as they behaved themselves. Those with longer sentences would be staying in Azkaban for some years more, unless Voldemort was feeling particularly generous (which was unlikely) or unless they were suddenly needed for something. Like Horace Slughorn. He’d been sentenced to two years for attempting to impede the takeover of Hogwarts, but had been released barely three months later when there had been problems concerning teaching staff. Lord Voldemort couldn’t decide on a Headmaster for Hogwarts, and since Horace had been the only professor he had ever genuinely liked, and Severus was dead, and McGonagall in Azkaban too, it had been a relatively easy decision. But not many people would be that lucky. 

Harry knew that he should give those people some thought, some ounce of concern, the way he had used to get upset over Stan Shunpike who had been falsely imprisoned for being a Death Eater. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. These people had been genuinely guilty of the crimes they had been accused of, even though that might merely have been to rebel; stupid, petty crimes, but crimes nonetheless and Voldemort’s court had been rather just when handing down their sentences. Unlike the old Wizengamont, who had imprisoned Sirius for life for telling a Secret, despite the fact that there was no trial, no proof, and that he hadn’t actually killed anyone, because Merlin knows none of those Wizards cared about the twelve Muggles who were killed in the crossfire. 

Harry looked over at his husband. They were married now, for the first time because Tom had never gotten around to gaining Anathema’s father’s permission before. Voldemort was good at his job, sometimes too good. There were days where Harry actually believed that things should have always been this way, days where Harry agreed with the changes, where he encouraged them, and then he’d remember that things had been fine before for him at least, but things could have been worse too. Voldemort could have done all of this differently, and Harry was thankful that he hadn’t, that the Horcruxes were mostly gone and that Tom was mostly in control. 

Voldemort looked over at Harry, eyes taking him all in, from his scruffy jeans half-hidden beneath his expensive dress robe, and Voldemort’s black shirt that hung off of Harry’s thin frame, to the unruly mop of dark brown hair, and those eyes that caught his gaze and brightened just for him. 

Horace Slughorn continued to talk to him, acting as if fifty-odd years hadn’t passed them by, as if he had never been sent to Azkaban, as if he hadn’t ever opened his mouth about Anathema’s pregnancy in the first place. Voldemort wondered, as he turned his attention back to his old teacher, if he would have reacted as violently as he had if Anathema had told him himself, if he hadn’t spent those intermediate hours wondering about the _real_ father of that child. His eyes skimmed towards the children, one his and the other not though Harry had finally conceded to changing the boy’s surname at least: they were all Riddles now, as much as he loathed the name, it was his own. Mallory looked over at his father and grinned, milk-teeth straight and white and bared, and he waved excitedly, and Voldemort wondered how he could have ever been so ungrateful, so stupid, as to have harmed his other child. Why wouldn’t he have wanted this? 

“Life has a way of coming right in the end, Tom,” Horace said softly, reaching out as if they were friends to place a sweaty hand on Voldemort’s shoulder. Passing Ministry workers and Death Eaters alike stopped and stared, and even Harry looked mildly worried, as Voldemort turned slitted red eyes onto the Hogwarts Headmaster. Horace nodded towards Harry. “You were never the same after Anathema’s murder, and the death of the child too, it must have been horrendous for you! But you have him now, and the young Master, well both of them,” he smiled widely as he spoke, seemingly unconcerned about touching the Dark Lord. “You must be very proud.”

“I am.” 

“Well, see! There it is, Tom! I always knew you’d make a brilliant father, must say, I’m glad you got the chance. Was thinking to myself I’d have to tell you so the next time I saw you, but well, you haven’t been at Hogwarts much. Spending time with your family, eh?”

“Hogwarts was a fond time for me. But it is no longer my home,” Voldemort spoke softly, so that only Horace could hear him. Those walking passed merely saw his mouth moving, and his hand pushing Slughorn’s off of his shoulder. 

Horace winced. “Bad memories? I suppose it must be hard to be there and remember times spent with your friends and Anathema when you’ve outlived them all.”

Voldemort offered him a half-smile, a quirk of one corner of his mouth that Horace would have missed if he hadn’t have turned right at that moment to offer a pitying glance. “I have better memories now, and a new home.” He paused, thinking about the speech he would give later on to those being reintroduced to society. Maybe Slughorn was in need of hearing it too? “Bad times are like rain clouds,” he sighed, pausing. This speech… Lucius had written it for him, and even as he thought about it, Voldemort felt like vomiting a little in his mouth, but Harry had said it was beautiful and so he commended Lucius on a job well done and refrained from torturing the falsely sentimental man. “Eventually, they’ll pass by. Everything passes us by eventually, Horace; the difference between good times and bad times is only that when a good time is ending you hold onto it that much tighter and yet you let the bad time go, but the memories of both are always there, and both always end. Change is inevitable.” 

“Yes,” Horace said, clearing his throat uncomfortably, “well.” 

“Ah, here they come. It was nice talking to you,” he said, sounding more sincere than he thought he was. But perhaps he had needed that closure? To talk to the man about his lover and child, the same man who had confided in him about Ana’s child, congratulated him and then consoled him after Ana’s death. This man, who while not knowing that Anathema had never truly left him, was happy that he had moved on and was happy. This time, in this life, being genuinely congratulated on his child was something that Voldemort would cherish for the rest of his life: how proud he was, how pleased, at the thought of Mallory, and how he wondered if Harry would mind being pregnant again. 

“Hello, my Harry,” he whispered into Harry’s ear as he wrapped an arm around the younger man’s waist. Mallory shifted to make room for his father and then pressed himself back, hugging the Dark Lord’s legs. Teddy stayed still and composed, silent and attentive, because after all he was almost four and he wasn’t a _baby_ like Mallory was! Voldemort, sensing their eldest’s thoughts, chuckled softly. 

“Welcome back, Dark Lord,” Harry teased with a grin, leaning sideways to press a light kiss to the edge of Voldemort’s mouth. 

The doors to the atrium opened, and the hall fell silent. Those waiting within stood still, surrounding the Dark Lord’s family, and the families of those being released, and they waited with bated breath as Aurors appeared first, followed by a handful of bedraggled looking children. Because that’s what they were. The youngest among them was nineteen, but the eldest was only twenty-two, a child themselves when they were imprisoned, deprived of their childhood because they fought for what they believed in. 

Luna lifted her hand in greeting, staring above Harry’s head as she was led passed him. Hermione kept her eyes averted, her hands shaking in fear, but she couldn’t help but sneak peeks at her old friend. She gasped loudly in the deathly silent atrium, eyes wide as they locked on the small boy clinging to the Dark Lord, and then flicking back to Harry. He offered her a wry grin, his free hand shifting to touch his stomach as the other held Teddy’s still. Instinctively she found herself offering a smile back. 

“Congratulations,” she whispered as she passed, remembering Harry’s pain as he dreamt about Anathema’s child’s murder. Green eyes looked at her from the two-year-old’s face, and Mallory offered her a shy grin too.

A couple of others that Harry recognized from being in the year bellow him at Hogwarts followed them, people he knew by face but not by name, but they all knew him. They pointed and gasped and some glared, but for the most part they walked dejectedly by him and out of the atrium to meet the Minister. 

But one remained behind.

Ron Weasley stopped dead, arms folded across his chest, and he glared. One Auror waited at the other side of the Atrium; the others and the prisoners out of sight by now. But Ron made no attempt to follow them.

“He killed my sister.” 

Harry pushed Teddy behind him, out of sight and out of reach, but Ron didn’t make any move to attack. Voldemort, similarly, stepped in front of Mallory. 

“He killed your girlfriend. He killed your parents. Sirius died because of him. You had to live at the Dursleys because of him, damn it!”

“Bellatrix killed Sirius. Albus left me with the Dursleys. People die in war, Ron, it happens.” Harry tried to sound placating, but he just felt tired. He’d had this argument so many times since he got married, and even then most of the living and free friends he had left didn’t turn up. Hermione had understood, though she had hated how Harry hadn’t even tried to defend her at her trial, because she had been trying to save him and he had let them all condemn her for it. But she had understood. 

“He’s a murderer!” Ron screamed, his face almost as red as his hair. 

Harry just shrugged, because after all, hadn’t he killed people too? Quirrell had died because of him, and Cedric, and Sirius if you wanted to get technical about it. Crabbe had died too, or was it Goyle, both, Harry remembered. One in the fire, and one later from smoke inhalation, and he could have tried harder to save them but he hadn’t because it had been war and it was every man for themselves. He had killed people too. They all had. Anyone who had fought for Hogwarts might have been incidentally responsible for the death of another person, and the only death Harry could really hold against Voldemort was their unborn child’s, because everyone else he had killed could have fought back. 

“She loved you!” Ron was crying now. “He killed her!”

“What do you want me to say, Ron? I broke up with her because I thought something like that would happen. I didn’t ask her to continue telling people she was my girlfriend, did I? How was I supposed to know what was going to happen? I didn’t even know she’d be there! She was meant to be at home.” 

“She loved you,” Ron whispered, seeming to shrink in on himself. 

“But I didn’t love her.” 

And with that Ron changed. He looked less defeated, more enraged, and his eyes narrowed as they looked up at the Dark Lord. 

“YOU!” He hissed, fists clenched, “you did this! This is your fault!” And then he was running at them, hunched forward like a rugby player with his arms spread. Harry didn’t even think about the children, because he knew Ron wouldn’t hurt them, even if Voldemort had fathered one of them. Ron was quick to anger and easy to forgive, but he wasn’t the kind of person to hurt a defenceless child. 

But he would try and hurt Voldemort. And Voldemort would kill him for it. Harry would then be obligated to be angry, and to hate him, and to feel guilty for not doing something to protect Ron like he had failed to protect Ginny and Cedric. He refused to go through that again. He was happy, finally happy, and he wasn’t going to let Voldemort ruin that. So without really considering the consequences, he pulled the Elder Wand from his robe pocket and he pointed it at the boy who had once been his brother. 

Ron didn’t even have time to be surprised as green light shot towards him. He didn’t stop running, he didn’t keep running; he simply stopped, toppling forward like a status and hitting the floor face first, almost in the same place as his sister landed three years ago. The green light faded, and it was followed by multiple voices exclaiming and whispering and screaming, but Harry stood in the eye of the proverbial storm, unaffected by what he had just done. Behind him, Voldemort tensed, waiting for some sort of reaction, but Harry just offered him a smile and pulled Mallory into his arms. 

“I’m not angry,” Harry said, leaving the ‘with you’ unmentioned. He had no one to blame for Ron’s death but Ron and himself, after all. He cuddled Mallory against his chest, mourning the loss of his best friend, one he hadn’t seen for three years but who he had loved regardless. 

“I love you, Voldemort” Harry whispered softly, for the second time that day. Voldemort actually thought he might have meant it this time. There had been moments, instances where he had hoped, where he had believed, but Harry had stuck to his ‘once a day’ rule for the past three years, never saying it again, but neither had Voldemort said it so perhaps that was fair. But this time, this time Harry had said it again, without prompting, without begging, and Voldemort reached for Harry’s arm, linking their fingers, and led his family from the atrium. 

“And I you,” he breathed. Despite how he felt, he still couldn’t say the words, and no doubt Harry deserved to hear them, but he wasn’t able. They caught in his throat, got stuck on his tongue and he choked on them, stumbled over the pronunciation and the letter ‘L’. Many times he had turned his face away in shame as Harry and Anathema both had watched expectantly, disappointedly. 

“I know you do.” Harry reached out to take Teddy’s hand, while still carrying Mallory. He had to let go of Voldemort though, but that was ok, because Voldemort’s arm encircled his waist and pulled Harry against his side, slotting them together like pieces of a puzzle, like two halves of one whole. 

_XXX_

September 1st 2001. 

Hermione glanced around the Great Hall. She was sitting alone at the Gryffindor table, while other students shifted around her, talking and muttering about nothing and everything at once. But no one spoke to her. As part of her parole, she was allowed to finish her Hogwarts education, repeating with the current sixth years, and then the seventh years, before finally taking her NEWTs. All of her friends were dead or had moved on by then, and she didn’t know anyone in her year, except Luna, though she did recognize some of the other newly released prisoners. 

Muggleborns were no longer allowed to attend Hogwarts. Instead, with the exception of Hermione (who was certain Harry had finally intervened on her behalf), there were no other Muggleborns in the school, which was partly the reason that no one would speak to her. 

Children were being adopted at birth or being contacted now rather than at age eleven, and being sent to a special training school where they would learn the same things that Purebloods taught their children in the pre-Hogwarts years. Those that were too old, those that had already started Hogwarts, were finishing their education at the Ministry, overseen by professors and tutors, and then they would be expected to teach themselves about the Wizarding world and take a test. If they failed, then the Wizarding world had no use for them, and each of them knew better than to believe that they would simply be Obliviated and sent on their way. 

Hermione would have to pass the same test along with her NEWTs but they wouldn’t pose a problem for her. She enjoyed studying, and most of the old knowledge Harry possessed had been taught to him by Hermione anyway, so really, she was the one better suited to be a Pureblood. But that was life. 

In the months since her release had been staying in a specialised housing unit, set up the year previous when Voldemort realized some of the sentences would be expiring soon. It was almost like an orphanage, but almost like a hostel: Hermione likened it to the places in America where criminals on parole were made to live, tagged and monitored, but no longer behind metal bars. She had spent her remaining summer studying up on the changes Voldemort had made.

Some of his ideas reeked of Harry’s influence, but the _Daily Prophet_ credited the Dark Lord solely. She had snorted, reread the article about Lord Voldemort protecting abused children, and thought about Harry, bone-thin and bruised, being rescued by a flying Ford, and Harry scared and trying to hide it as his uncle grabbed him and shook him because the Order had dared speak to him in public. Harry had had to have had something to do with it, she had thought, because Harry wouldn’t have been able to stand back and allow other children to suffer that fate. But then she had remembered Voldemort’s past, or what Harry had shared of it, and felt guilty for ignoring the abuse Tom Riddle had suffered. 

Without the Horcruxes, and the murder, and the madness, she thought, would their world have been a better place already? Years and years before she would have been born? Would she have even known her parents then, or would she have been blood adopted and raised as a Black or a Malfoy or a Lestrange like other babies this year? She wouldn’t have known any differently then, they would never have had to fight that horrid war, and lose so many friends. They would never have had to suffer and grieve and give, give, give for the greater good. She could see it in her mind already. Lord Voldemort and Anathema Black and their blue-eyed baby, ruling over their world. They’d have been full of charm and grace and power. 

Hermione wondered, as she sat isolated at the Gryffindor table, if things would have been better if the world had changed like that. Where no one would be alive now who remembered it. 

After all, ignorance was bliss. 

**The End**

THANK YOU VERY MUCH TO EVERYBODY WHO READ AND REVIEWED NEW DIVIDE AS WE WERE GOING ALONG! YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME! And thank you to my beta Star-Faerie, and to Areae Swiftwind who sort of disappeared along the way! 

Now that it is over… I just want to say I know some of you wanted me to write about the outside world, or Hermione and Ron in Azkaban, or the Death Eaters, etc, but this story is about Anathema and Tom. So that’s how I wrote it.


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